Amber In the Distance

Violet and gray spoke of harsh rains that day, as clouds hung low in weighted anticipation, then upon my face sprinkled Heaven's bouquet, slight at first, then swift in accumulation. The amber porch lamp, my distant beacon, where a snapping fire beckons and atones, my drenched and weary spirit which does not weaken but in driven by this windy assault to my chilling bones. It was orange and cinnamon tea which met me, a welcome assail upon an old woman's senses, where my favorite afghan was warmed with mercy, and peaceful sleep found me quite defenseless.