The Madness of December

Before the lovely heat of an old stove, a recluse sat; outside, a whining wind had now begun to bluster as it wove itself among the trees. Undisciplined, it ripped remaining leaves from every limb which trembled helplessly along its path. It twisted through the woods with wicked vim, upturned soft, quiet snowfall in its wrath, unfurled snow’s swirling flecks upon a pond of porcelain nearby a little shack wherein one warmed himself as morning dawned. As wind blew on, the grizzled lumberjack sat whistling to its icy tone. . . . steadfast. The madness of December cannot last.