The chill has come;

the fingers creep at the corners of glass.


We pray it won’t last.

We shiver to shake off the blanket of Cold.


In vain; this season is Cold’s to hold.

We will pile on the layers of isolation

And pray it won’t last, full of cringes




The squeak of old hinges,

Free now that Frost has hidden its teeth.


The mud underneath,

Since the flakes have kissed goodbye those they held dear,

And returned to the sky.


The chill doesn't easily die;

it lingers in our fingers.

But eventually all must concede,

and allow Spring to enter in.