The year of blood stretched its weary limbs. Clots dripped in the half-light.

The new year of ice bared its teeth. They are mine now, the wind whistled. And they have done it all themselves.

But in one corner, one quiet corner, the green and yellow nestled. It would take time, a long time, and human touch and heat, but the blood and the winter would come to an end. That time was coming. Hope could be felt.