Winter murmurs

 

                                        Picture Courtesy: https://unsplash.com/photos/4CDdd1RCt6w                                               

Winter puts forth its gentle music of light winds and faint whispers. The winds tenderly caress my spine bestowing a sense of chill and quiver. Nothing but polite. Nothing but the one like young love. I let it flow past me, through my bones slithering its way to the blood. It ached from within and I let it, until it ached gentle. The blood freezes and the life leisurely wafts, bit by bit until it goes plain hushed and the murmur of the winter goes faint. The whispers fairly unfathomable, but to my conjecture, words of pure comfort wrapping around my slumbered soul like a warm blanket. Mellowing out the blue from the resting blood. They are perhaps of archaic poets, for it is the words of the dead that prevail to astound you and  acquaint with you the most when you feel the coldness and eerie of the winter blues and yearn the apricity. My soul awakens from the hiemal slumber and I want to sleep, for I am tired. Life awakens and I try to weave the words I seek to hear syllable to syllable into sentences. There were both warmth and the chills of both the whispers and murmurs. From within the white translucent mist, someone somewhere begs the sun to spare some gold down hither. And I find my peace in this subtly placid instance.