The cold **** of the avenue
is clothed in new-flossed frost;
its cursive curls a billet-doux
addressed to all the star-crossed
almosts of a new-make year.
Ulcerated clouds crowd near
then sheer to rusting huffs
that hug the gapping rough
of river down the heavy hill.
Let wind moan in your hair,
let infant snow flock the sill -
the broken day's beyond repair
& night is owed arrears,
paid in hours long as years.