"Winter is the time for comfort,
for good food and warmth,
for the touch of a friendly hand
and for a talk beside the fire:
it is the time for home."
Edith Sitwell
Winter calls me into a cave filled with lighted candles. I tend to keep all things private and books are my only guests. If I feel the need for expression, I simply write and then write some more. I settle in front of the fire, content to go no where nor see any one.
The coffee still brews, and the hot tea steeps. Fresh salads are exchanged for hearty home made soups, and bread gets pulled daily from the oven. Gone is the ice cream readily replaced by hot buttered pop corn.
My clothes are in numerous layers clear down to my twice covered toes. Several pillows caress my head while I drift in and out of sleep. Visions warm my chilled bones and quilts form a comfy cocoon wrapping all around me. Who knows, by spring I might just turn into a butterfly!
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