It’s
a hard wind that blows across the gnarly branches
Of
naked trees in the dying night
Against
the red brick houses and loose hinges
Of
doors put up to keep out the cold
Black
high boots shelter frozen feet
In
the depths of an icy crunch
Shuffling
along shoveled sidewalks and salted roads
Ghosts
of future winters search for solace in the morning light
I
remember the leaves bright yellow and orange
Plump
with age and lighthearted knowledge of the changing seasons
Shining
in full glory beneath the mischievous autumn sun
Now
covered in cold white ash
That
falls from yesterdays burning sky
They
lay rotting, deserving of a welcomed rest
The
cold chills my eyes as I search out over rooftops
Grey
smoking chimneys remind me of old winters in a box
Somewhere
beneath the January sky snow falls gently
On
a Sunday
