the Skin of Frost

There is an act of self preservation in the first snow.

The way it comes, harsh and plentiful.

The way it goes, minus song and repose.

I had begun to think these times were not for me.

Melted moments of yesteryear’s atrocities.

Now I ponder upon granite stone.

Blowing in the wind of unknown.

To never find kindness in the bitter and caressing skin of frost.

Will be just another loss.