That which I breathe in and exhale
That which shows itself as fug on the window panes;
Is this proof of the warmth, or the cold?

It howls in the evenings,
angry and desperate as
it whistles through buildings,
the shush of trees, thejingle of roof tile shingles,
the eery groan between the cracks.
Is this a war cry or a lullaby?

The cold bite on skin,
the thrash on limbs,
the buffeting -- upward, downward, wherever,
intent on making man fall;
Is this the trial or the sentence?