Where Winter Comes Alive

There is a place I know of
where winters come alive;
interred in wild wonderlands
so memories survive.

It was the icy moonlight
that saw me stopping there
amidst the trees and silence
where shadows sought to stare.

Looking to an ebon stone
where the snow had failed to fall-
I waited in the darkness
just to hear some ghostly call.

Every moment was a memory,
each breath a deadly sin,
as the wind whipped wide around me
pulling laughter from within.

It was the frigid moonlight
that turned my soul to stone,
and the morning sun thereafter
that left me less alone.