Plow Light

The scrape started low, a grind

before light, against the pane.

My breath fogged the glass, a blind

film, tracing the cold rain

of yesterday, now frozen hard.

My cheek, pressed, felt the pane's deep chill.

The gray seeped in, a muted card

of morning, stark and still.

Fingers numb, curled on the sheet,

I could taste the air, sharp and thin.

Another season, cold and sweet,

where the quiet tries to win.

The plow grumbled past, a final drag.

And I was left with the numb weight,

the world outside a frozen flag,

and nothing moving, just wait.