There’s a silver wisp

Encountering to two black holes

To linger and to freeze

And what I breathe is winter



The burning leaves before each eve

The moisture rotting away the wood

A cupping of burly brown earth

Settles in the crevices of my hands



The warming in each tender place

The sifting coal down alley ways

Hand made mittens and frost about

I tense my shoulders as I walk



The morrow shifts its eyes low

To peer alone at barren earth

And tuck it in to sleep

For lo, I feel the coming white.