This, eve of winter..

Backed upon an incessant stance,
Leaning in with wind kissed skin,
The wash,
Rises,
Enlivening.
Lifting,
With a present momentary push,
To make the most of this twilight song,
This,
Eve of winter.
Running silent through the frost bitten moor of snow,
Silent, but for her dance,
Playing out across exposed grass.
Out towards,
The stand of cloistered trees.
Who's ruminating branches now near devoid of leaves,
Voice approving trembles from their staves upon her breeze.
It's the sight,
The sound,
The touch and present,
Which warms the stride and lifts the spirit to the night.
It's the choice to keep on moving,
To hold a breath and set it free,
And watch it weave as it leaves to flit upon this eve of winter.
It's the choice to cheer her onward flight,
Which warms the stride and lifts the spirit to the night.