Frost on the Mind


This has been the winter of diamonds rather than fluffy drifts of ermine, sparkling lacework etched into glass rather than the potent spears of ice hanging from eaves.

I wake in the morning to the roof’s glistening pavement out my window, our pale lawn a mere ghost of its former self, reminding me of how slick the deck will be.

A sip of hot coffee and the vanishing act begins, fragile as the whisker of moon that still lingers in the brightening sky, temporary as the shiny new plans I make every dark morning.

For as soon as the sun touches, it will be gone.

(Dedicated to that odd leap in February.)


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