If I stare at the blue sky long enough I can almost remember what summer is. But the howling wind and dead landscape remind me that winter is all that can be known. It reaches far beyond the weather and into my very being where I cannot shake the dark, cold chill of my haunts. Hidden as animals that burrow underground. Presumed by the outsider to be non-existing because they cannot be seen. The life of holiday and family bring only surface comfort. Their embrace cannot touch what they cannot see.