They hated the snow she provided them
So they can build their snowmen.
They angered her, so she froze them in,
And they wished and prayed for the sun again.

She brought them light and butterflies
To hush their mouths and halt their cries.
They asked for roses, beets, and tangerines.
She cried to grow their floral dreams.

Her tears halted their outside time,
So they begged and asked for more sunlight.
She stopped her tears and obeyed their request,
And brought bees, fireflies, and sweat.

The flowers she brought gave them flus.
The bees she gave stung them blue.
The sun scorched and burned their skin,
So they begged and begged for the cold again.

She blew wind to cool them off.
She showed colors of brown and apricot.
She left leaves and pinecones around their house,
But they raked them up and threw them out.

They angered her, so she froze them in,
With hopes to never see them again!
She did everything they requested,
But they hated her no matter what she did.

There’s a voice in my head
haunting me—
pulling at the seams of my reservation.

In this forest, it calls—
soft and distant,
waiting for me to walk deeper into the hush.
In this white dress, the grass blades cut my ankles,
vines wrap around the autumn trees,
luring me farther in.

It calls whenever it wants,
wherever it wants—
patiently waiting to hold me in its grasp.

I stand beneath a towering tree,
feet bleeding into the earth,
the sky swallowed in rust and gold.

Looking far and wide,
only the vastness of forest meets my eyes.
Even as I run,
there’s only a sea of fallen leaves.

I feel the wind against my skin.
The back of my neck tingles
from a touch I cannot see.
It doesn’t hold me physically—
but I feel its grasp,
spirit-deep.

Whatever it is,
it wants to be found by me.

So I keep running—
not to escape,
but to chase the feeling of fleeing.
Letting the wind lift my hair from my face
as the sun’s light begins to fade.

Still, the forest keeps calling.
Whatever I have left—
let it be swept away by the autumn wind.


- N.V. 🥀

Please, call me to the place where my tomorrow was,
Where all my fears and failures were no where,
Where I laughed much and danced a whole lot,
Where we both were together, you and me, just everywhere!

Please call me to the place where snowfalls
Entirely reign in winter, and frost is.
Where rains and leaf-falls are in autumn fully
And wrap with spicy odour all as coverlid.

Please Call me to the place where I was loved!
And where I loved wholeheartedly, without “May not!” at all!
Please call me to the place where I was free!
I beg you, call me to my place! It's not for all

Long shadows sandwiched between a biting breeze and a not quite wet damp black tarmac.

The end of colour intense time, echoing summer and spring's past,
pulling eyes to the grey mute hues of sky and tree.
A subdued stating of its intent to last.

Year-end approaches, celebration looms, competing the grey with a triumph that brings change towards gentler tones.
And a lightness,
seemingly lost in the yearly cycle.

The scent of spring once hidden beneath the diminishing decay of autumn and winter's contribution brings a bright hope forecasting a weathered change.

The beat of the yearly cycle quickens adding strength and tempo to my own hearts quickening with a prospect of longer days.