The winter comes like a long lost uncle,
A steam trunk full of musty clothes
That need to be washed
And a health inspector's appetite.
Layer upon layer of deeper isolation and withdrawal,
I can barely hear him tell me
How much better Lucinda's pancakes were.
I can barely hear the tiny pellets of freezing rain
Pelting the tin roof ever so gently,
Snowed in, and snowed asunder.

-jenn