Winter

The vanity of the sun waning swiftly,

Airborne birds tracing their dwelling,
The silhouette at distance quite unclear.

Candles burning still, no stuttering
Enduring the pain.
The tenderness of the hearth dwindling.

The frost on the pane melting
Imagery so fuzzy
Unveiled faces yet disguise at heart.

Damp and cold the surroundings encircled,
The appetite yet not satiated-
Heavy slumber dawn upon.

The moon so hoary,
Twinkling here and there
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep. 

 A poem inspired  by - After Apple Picking, Robert Frost