The snow has swelled to lick the windowsill
with its dead tongue. The luxury of chill
has favored every creaking of the eaves.
The laurel hedge regrets its emerald leaves.
All things are either torpid or they shake.
The wind carves drifts like some ghost’s birthday cake.
And everything stands naked, bony, true.
Somehow, it’s all not half as cold as you.
