You can smell it on your tongue
Feel it in your nose
When it’s almost begun
The anticipation grows

The forecast has been there for days
Time enough to prepare
Some dry kindling to start a flame
And some dry wood for it to glow

I’ll meet you by the fireside
When the first white flakes do sow
From pregnant skies overhead
This is magic, Don’tcha know?

We’ll drown our sarrows with a drank
And we will mock god chair
“Bon Hiver” to those who celebrate
The end of yair grows nair

This love we burn just like a f’yre
Will keep us warm this nought
Until the light returns again
Still seeking what we sought.

From The Woods Project