Smoky grey tendrils of warmth creep from
deep within my lungs and escape
into the surrounding frost until
they are lost, swirling away into the icy air
as my hair is misted with crystals.
Is this breath the only distinction
between the biting cold death that awaits
in nature’s frozen château
and the flow of hot blood indubitably
indicating my life?
Naked silhouetted tree limbs sway
in the moon’s silvery light, and as the wind dances
the cold fingers on their branches reach out
imploringly, to touch my cheek
with whispered queries of their own.