near to the window my hands turn colder
and after a time
they scream for this sensation like a moth to the flame

it is a familiar feeling in the colder months
yet now, as always at the start of it all
I feel beckoned, almost challenged
by the night wind through autumn's black window

as in a dream I open my door,
and the secrets whisper all the louder
and the layers unfold again
down the raw streets scratched across with leaves
the incense of the air
swaying with the boughs in cold embrace

all is beautifully stark
somehow clear in its mystery
and inwardly warm
in all its terrible majesty