Stillborn Winter

 


In the morning
In the dead space before sunrise
In cold November
Where the freeze warning makes good on its promise
And the field is white

The devil is in the details
Well, it's also very cold
Sunrise is not here yet.
And so the spirit of death touches the lip
As you hurry to the warmth of the door

But this lingering frost
That nibbles and giggles on the carried air
It nips at your toes
As you try to fall asleep
And looks to find a crack
In whatever you're wearing