Winter's Hold

The branches twist, bare against the sky,

a single crow perched, its feathers ruffled,

as if to mock the chill that numbs the bones,

and I sit by the window, breath fogging the glass.

My neighbor struggles, shoveling snow,

each flake falls heavy, stinging like loss,

the driveway a battlefield where warmth retreats,

a quiet war fought under the gray, brooding clouds.