I the Lord do not change.
The sky has hardened into an iron atmosphere, layering itself with blankets of clouds thick and full of snow, which will no doubt spill to earth within days. As I inhale the heavy air into my lungs, it no longer soothes; it stings. I dig my hands deeper into my pockets, attempting to corral the last remnants of autumn that have slipped into the seams of my coat, clinging for dear life.
Bare branches. Signs of the color that once graced the world mere weeks ago, now turned to an ashen state that cowers close to the ground. Empty parks, void of laughter and light. Waking and falling to sleep in darkness. And that endless chill that tears right through the seven layers I use to line my body. Farewell, fall. Welcome, winter.
Yet with the exit of harvest season enters the dreams of December. Silent, snowy walks. The scent of crackling wood exiting through brick-laden chimneys, filling the already spice-spilled space in my heart with an aroma of warmth and kindling excitement. Cookie decorating that ends with most of the frosted sugar treats in my mouth instead of the storage tin. With the dip of the temperature, so comes the rise of star-studded nights and cozy couch sittings where I can sprawl with a cup of hot chocolate and let melodic Christmas songs bathe me in the comfort of our coming King.
Seasons change. It’s inevitable. We can prepare ourselves and hold onto the memories of warmer, brighter times, but change will still greet us in the morning, when we slip outside to take on the day and a billow of crystallized breath erupts from our lips.
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