Weathered Steel

Father Winter exhales,

reaching frostbitten fingers

across fields of emerald

turned sepia by his approach.

.

A sea of grass straightens,

lining up like infantry,

blades sharpened by bitter cold,

.

the sound of steel on steel

rings out in miniature

as summer’s softness

stiffens into winter

crunched underfoot.

.

The cold sticks to warmth

like an ice cube sticks to lips,

as if it remembers what

it once meant to melt into a kiss.

.

Winter has a way of hardening

even the most enduring joys,

and life itself would rather dream

of warmer days than face his wrath.

.

Animals steal away in burrows

to weather out the weather

while I steel myself in blankets

and long to sleep until spring,

.

when everything is emerald again,

and the grass bows beneath bare feet

instead of crunching beneath boots.