At winter’s window sash stand I,
freezing drizzle stones the sky
and I in part can’t conjure why the snow won’t fall to ground.
The field beyond the fence holds fast,
betrayed by dew drop’s silver cast
to shimmer hard and still like glass with no imagined sound.
The muddied lane sparks tire ruts
to frosted edge that hides the cuts
where deep the season’s rain still guts the whole of mud’s warm keeping.
But if the night freeze find them there,
will draw them closed as if to spare
there fallowed hearts from crisping air and keep for daylight’s seeping.
At window’s ledge and winter’s stand
I pause to gaze across the land,
tender warm my cup in hand and witness autumn’s fleeting…
… another winter’s start, repeating.