winter

The season of ice

grows downwards into the unsuspecting spine

like a stalactite,

fusing frost to vertebrae

until the nerve-numbed soles take root

in granite no less frozen

than Everest;

chilled hands cup a cup whose heat

explodes their crinkled life-lines

like atomic palmistry;

outside,

snow encroaches the naked air

like phlegm in a larynx,

swirling,

barking to free itself

in sodden clumps

that tack to branches bare like ribs

and shudder, drooping,

hiding the ghost of life that cracks

and rattles the panes under every

riverbed, window, iris:

all cold portals closed and ingrown

waiting

under the burning white

for spring.