January air

The air this morning, sharp and mean,

it hit my throat and turned it ice.

The silence where the snow had been

was colder than a frozen vice.

The branches, black against the white,

stood brittle, ready now to break.

Each gust a tiny, biting blight,

for goodness, or for pity's sake.

The frost on glass, a ragged lace,

like scars where something tried to tear.

It's stripping everything from its place,

leaving the raw and naked air.