Grandma, knits were love in every stitch; knitted in hard times.

Gripped with bitter cold, ice-locked, vision blurred with dense fog. The cold sun is just setting bashing some colder lavender hill. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and field, as it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt. The road is soaked with rain and sparkling under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of symphony. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.

Mending the soul. Filling in holes with wool.

Warm your soul with positive thoughts. Otherwise you're gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul.

The daylight is cold and there's a tang of turning leaves in the air. They split themselves from the twig, swirl and ballet in the space. Leaves are lessening from the trees, as if, they have lived there life this season. They plunge in the arm of Mother Nature and she greets them in her own spongy way.

How cold is this season! Even the lights are cold; they have put shawls of fog around them, see! Winter’s knocking at the door. Now, November's fire burns slowly along the woods, they blend with autumn zephyrs sighing; tone and color, frost and fire. The fire burns and kettle sings.