I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.

Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.