Unclear path leads
to a sprawl of it,
bracken uproar
sherbet-dipped, fuzzy
with winter’s
silver vernacular.
Brushing’s a sharp
nip like a tickle of static,
trail of chill on a finger
births a curious ache.
What sorcerer bedecks the scene
with a crystallised tongue?
Staccato drips, listen now.
Scarcely audible but
an offer to taste
its thawing language.