Winding Down

The winter wind is shushing me too loudly pursing cold lips against the flat window pane and hissing and moaning like some rude, unloved librarian, having turned out  all the lights, having re-shelved  all her dusty books so that tables are cold-heartedly bare, having glared with Stygian determination across the vast echoes of time depleted of hope,  and drawing a gray bedraggled curtain