To Mold A Story

The paths I walked along in summer
Are now muddy from fallen snow.
Autumn leaves stick around in early winter.
The cold air freezes rain.
It's hard to breathe when I can see my breath.
I stay inside, wearing fuzzy socks and warm sweatpants.
My cardigan has pockets big enough to hold my Kindle.
The books I read inspire my writing.
I finally wrote the poem that had been
On my mind for several days.
I didn't know what I wanted it to be
Until it unfolded underneath my fingertips.
The art of creation, forming something out of nothing.
Using words to mold a story not yet told.
To see how things evolve with the seasons
Through a poet's point of view.