The Theft by Ryan Kaplan

At first you admire the the swatches of amber, crimson, and dandelion leaves
That paint the sky anew. Alas, their frangible connections to their homes disintegrate.
She is here; stealthily she begins to permeate. First it is just the leaves, but soon all is desolate. As with the leaves she will purloin your warmth and the heat within. All will be gone by the eve. I step outside into the icy world of Winter; I am in her world now. Oh how I grieve.
She is not just a thief of warmth, but a destroyer of life. The cycle will never cessate.
Winter is not cold air and blankets of snow. I beg you not to underestimate.
In her truest from, Winter is that feeling of ice seeping through your skin. Do not misperceive.
I cross my property littered in a muddy snow; it is no bleach white winter landscape,
It is a dull, monotonous, and beige mess. Overhead are the acutely bear branches
Of a thick oak tree. The usual buzz of its inhabitants is absent. All I can hear is her silence.
I near the river at last; it lies frozen and stiff; there is no flow, no current, no life, no escape.
Snow is falling rapidly now. There is silence, then a roar. An avalanche.
She buries me. I cry out into nothingness. My warmth dissipates. Oh what pestilence.