Winter

Was it light in the morning,

when the fog was thick on the water,

and the world was cracking its eyelids at the dawn?

Did the thin layers of ice persuade you?

Did you believe in your breath as it seeped out from your teeth,

was the quiet like a blanket,

its form heavy and quivering?

You will see it,

written across the windows,

sprawling its sharp fingers along the edges. 

Greeting you when you rise

in the dark, in the morning.

Your fingers are microscopes 

seeing what your eyes cannot. 

Unwavering, you are still, 

so when you speak,

into the mist

on the water,

the sound is a light,

bouncing off

the ends of the ice. 

Do you see it?

In the morning, 

when the ground is full and shrouded,

feet moving like whispers without shadows. 

You will feel it,

with fingertips wrapped, warm, and tingling.

The sound is cold,

but in light, it is shimmering.