The Cold Comes

The times of cold approach,
And the dark with it,
Twin seasons of Fall and Jack Frost,
Times of boreal frost biting at your fingers,
Seasons of shivers,
Presents of pumpkins and bonfires,
But not before the autumnal death of the year,

Firstly come the hues of orange and brown,
Emeralds decaying from the boughs,
Laying a carpet of beguiling entropy,
A funeral for this turn of the sun,
With scents of ginger and freshness,

Then follows the true storm of cold,
Walls of snow from the sky,
Rain haunting the alleys like spectres,
Jack Frost cackles in blizzards,
Leaving little crystalline stars about as presents,

These times bring cold and discomfort,
It’s undeniably true,
But it also brings gatherings around fireplaces,
Blankets and cuddles and cinnamon,
Hope for a new year,

If the cold didn’t bear down,
We wouldn’t know the warm.