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.