Slowly, quietly she encroaches on the humming of life

Inconspicuously she blankets miles upon miles of all types of land with simply a paintbrush in her hand

She cannot be stopped

For the beauty that flows from the tips of her fingers brings hope to all who need it

She represents that the pits in life, the mountains that block your journey are not forever

Just pick up a brush and paint a new picture

Her coming now however is debated and quite precarious

The humans that live right beside her, the ones she so humbly blesses with her beauty are the issue of her return

They are forcing her to stop

Deliberately and carelessly they toss themselves and their remains around letting their fires burn

Hope is fading briskly and the portrait that she creates is being heaved into the embers

The humans are causing her demise 

She is withered

She is blistered

She is abandoning her art

She was destroyed

She was suppressed

She was hope

She was Winter.