The early mornings are cold now
colder than the summer ones ever were
and why shouldn’t they be?
it’s the November side of Fall
I imagine the cold has a voice
a harsh whisper in a room too still
it’s a scratching sound, like glass cracking
carving icicles across the mind
The wind whispers differently now too
breathing long sighs across the tree tops
carrying the wintry bite of colder days still
punishing what leaves remain
Everything is a foggy breath
and why shouldn’t it be?
winter is playing a mean game of hide-and-seek
and we have just been found