Winter is for other people.

I put on socks this morning,
I only own three pairs.
It’s only October,
but Winter might be here.

The season I only heard whispers of,
through the myths of my father’s childhood.

Visions of picturesque landscapes blanketed in white,
Bundles of clothing that claim to have people inside,
Breath escaping from them, as proof.

My winters were flip-flops,
the occasional scarf,
Beaches finally empty and serene.

I think this might be different here
freezing might be real,
instead of hyperbole.

Winter was for other people,
or so I had always thought,
But, as I put on socks this morning,
I realized Winter might be for me too.

Fuck.

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