So cold my breath turned to snow and sprinkled in the footstep of a sparrow who, unwittingly, had crossed my path before the last sun had set; he wasn’t singing now, too dark too cold–and I was not too bold to venture out before a warming dawn, an icy mouth full of yawn. Slate gray it was with a border of dark pink–it rose like a broken window shade on my left: quiet, frosty, still: the night was slithering away, it’s belly nearly froze in place had she not been so sleek to slip away. She was meek, the night because she was the last one of the year. She had no fear of father sun for he was sure to return; she knew in calmness there is a strength. The yellow moon emblazoned on my right broke through the blackness of the night and hovered near my every move as I made my way. The yellow moon, so full and bright, hung like an anchor on a new day full of hope and promise of rebirth and joy. I followed the yellow moon–it was his noon—for he marked every step in my path, otherwise, I would not have known he took with him the pain of ice cold nights, and pointless, frigid fights against his will. He was pulling down all the darkness with him into his pit; and so, I knew, it was time to rest a bit and rise again without the frozen fear of pain.
It was time to hope again.