The North Wind.

A late January day, and it's a hazy shade of gray. Head bent, but ever onward. Bent legs, bent mind. Scorching heat encased inside biting cold. Where have the leaves gone? The trees look naked.

And the wind begins to blow. Birches, elms, and willows begin to bend. Out of the blue. The gray. Corpses of leaves blow past. The world, in its cold way, started coming alive.

And the trees began to stretch. Cold wind chills to the bones.

There's no one here. Anywhere.
And I felt cold. I felt lonely. I felt frightened.

Fleeting memories of people gone by. Unchained recollections sink to the bottom of the lake. Links break. Ropes snap.
And the moments stretch on and on. Almost as long as the trees.

And in an instant, it's gone. Pebbles to the bottom of a pond. Recalling anything is a chore if there is nothing left to remember. A difficult task, indeed.

Sad eyes are closed. Like gates. Out of sight, out of mind. Water pools at the edges of the eyes. Tears, one might say. But they never fall. They rest there, harbingers to what once was. Or what might have been. Or what is. Cool recollections meet cold wind.

White lace begins to dance down from the heavens. Curious. Cold wind meets cool lace. Scorching heat meets icy frost. Biting frost.

The lake is solid. The pebbles have iced over. Tears have turned to chilly glass. Eyes are frozen.
Blue clocks without hands.