chill

As the wind blows 
The tiny hairs 
Along my face,
Across my nose,
I look across to see 
A squirrel. 
And in its eyes,
I think it knows, 
The winter is near.
The leaves will fall, 
And the pile grows. 
But as the wind blows, 
The chill goes low, 
And I bundle up warm, 
From my ears to my toes,
And I look down to see 
That the edges of my tea 
Have grown cold.
I remember to take a sip
And the inner warmth flows.

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