The Frost Again

The sky’s the color of old dishwater,

a flat, unending, watery grey.

The wind, a sharp and biting slaughter,

steals breath and warmth right out of day.

It strips the trees down to the bone,

leaves brittle shards on paths I’ve known.

This season cracks me, deep inside,

it finds the places where I hide.

And freezes them. The air bites hard,

leaves everything a broken shard.