As the leaves turn and drop, and the winds blow and blow, and the rain falls, and the clouds cover, and the frost comes, and the heat turns on, and the fake fireplace glows, and the apple cake bakes, and the chicken with wild rice soup simmers, and the mountain gets whiter, and the nights get longer, and the golden mornings become more and more rare, I try to keep my baby warm. Sweet baby girl. All warm. Sweet and soft and warm. Dear girl.
