He felt a chill as the air grew cold
The leaves blew gently
He closed his eyes
This November was colder than usual.
He chopped wood and carried the bundle back to the fireplace
The wood crackled as it burned.
He thought back to Novembers long before, and was left, wanting.
A time where the warmth of the fire was felt throughout.
Where his jaded smile was once whole.
Yet only the cold remained. Waiting for Winter, silently and alone.
In the Winter, he carried his torch and hoped for Spring.
He waited yet the birds never did sing.
So Summer came and went,
and with Autumn brought rain.
And once again he found himself greeting Winter.
The cold air, brisk and to the point.
The trees, dead in appearance yet very much alive.
And then Spring came and he let it pass.
He waited for the cold he knew too well.
Funds to send Mike to Mars
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