Winter

The first sharp bite of winter’s chill

greets my lungs in the morning;

still robed in velvet black before

the tired sun has found the heart

to save these heavy early hours

from the belly of the night.

The warmth that has left the air

has left the colours of the sky at dawn;

and it is the chill in this pale light

that numbs the marrow of my bones.

But when the sun rises up to see

the rows of frosted rooftops,

she whispers in my ear

a careful promise

that the days will soon grow longer.

My bones can withstand this winter cold

until the soil stirs,

but by the time the chill

will have left my bones

The days will be growing shorter.