matter my will is made of, keep reaching and twining outwards; vines of emotion overgrow the terracotta bowl of my skull trying to put roots into hearts. "NO", I tell them, "don't root to take nourishment from another...I am your soil and I have all the nutrients you need...blossom, fruit, drop, and decay, that you may nourish others, first with your beauty, then with your fruit, then with your decaying matter...return your nutrients to the soil, and your progeny shall continue to flow from me, I am the son [sun!] of Gaia, I am the source of all vines, I overflow with fertile emotions." But do they listen? It matters not: December's hands will soon strike them back into me, their source, where they shall wrap themselves in themselves again and await the tug of springtime. Alas, it is winter now. It is the time of celebrations...when the world is cold, we shall make warmth! Let us sing songs of Death, that gossamer wind that coats our landscape in the gleaming diamond-dust of impermanence. Did I say wind? Nay, she is a widow. Perhaps a window? Yes, a window through which we see the beauty of our all-too-short time. I will wrap myself in a cloak, that I may serve as her curtains. In her icy gaze, I shall be warm, warm in the arms of my fertile love, which stands tall as a tree but bereft of leaves in this cold weather...come spring and summer, I will bloom again.