Noon had long gone, the blazing clouds the only sign of sun. The cold had set in, paralyzing everything in its wake. The trees now shivered bare in the winter wind, leaves discarded by nature, hiding the dying grass beneath- a coffin of sorts, the desperation for warmth, hope for the next life.

"It'll be better next time, you'll see. They'll be better."

But Mother Nature promised the same all the years prior. "It will be better next time. Rest now, you've done your part." She sings the fading life to sleep with her lullaby of whistling wind.

And so they sleep. They sacrifice themselves for a new day, a new generation. The leaves fall, the grass shrivels up. Even the clouds travel the sky to reach the east where their remains might catch the sunlight again in the morning. Because as the Winter night settles in, it holds dear the last breaths of Nature before she rests her body for the next time.

Rebirth.

The world falls, life disappears. The stars rise, frost spreads. Cold and vivid and furious. A broken promise, a final attempt, an empty air, an eerie silence. Dead and forgotten and lost. The Winter mourns the life that once was, like a soldier standing over a dark green garden. Yet still, the Winter clears out the corpses and caskets of the light left behind to make way for the coming morning, the dawn at the end of this perilous night. They clean away the memories for a world oblivious to their loss.

Because it'll return once more in Spring, won't it? It'll be better next time. Grow larger, bloom fuller, smell nicer. More chemicals, more abundance, more taste.

The grass will grow greener on the other side.

But where is the other side? The Winter pushes the remaining warmth to the deepest roots where next Spring's promise will bloom. The wind whistles a melancholic tune, a frigid nostalgia as it kisses the ground and air goodnight. One last surge of warmth comes to meet it- the last hope for the disintegrating dreams of Autumn.

"Please, let it be better next time. Give my last breath to them so that they might breathe a little longer than I. Give them my hopes. Give them my 'Good morning'. Give them my warmth."

And so, with a heavy conscious and conflicting morals, the Winter pushes down the last warmth.

The Winter covers the heat with a blanket of white as it drifts slowly down and whispers its last,

"Goodnight."

For 'Goodbye' would both be too painful and a lie.