It’s winter all over again. The mystical magic of the cold is returning. The steaming kettle. The smoking chimmneys. The long walks. The silent talks. The cold streets. The stamping of unknown feet. The serenity of silence. The crying crow. The thick enveloping fog. The feeling of abandonment. The soft cries in a middle of a night. The heavy sighs. The longing for a stranger. Stinging tears. The sense of loss. The stiff treas. The dying leaves. The long dark nights. The sinking heart. The loud certainty of crickets in the nearby garden. The empty roads. The barking of the neighborhood dog. The dullness of the sun. The cold heavy wind. The dying of a companionship. The warmth of a crisp cigarette. The empty old chair. The not-so bright mornings. My winter is back.