It's cold.

Right now it's January
and the cold air
has no pity

Wool coated,
neck scarves and leather gloves
ready to face the winter
the burn
the frost
and the breath-stealing cold.

The indoors
the walls
they're your sanctuary
and the heater by your feet
your icy, frozen feet
buried in the swell
that is the yard
buried in the swell
that is mother nature's revenge-
snow.

Not a branch moves
outside your frosted panes
nothing stirs
and everything waits
there is no green
lest it be the pine needles
laughing at death
at the long sleep
as if they slipped the world
this wintry draught.