L'Hiver

When the frost begins to flow like a river,
You put flesh on the bones of my suspicions
About where you are hoarding
The last vestiges of your warmth,
Some days it is so cold,
But begging for the Solstice does no good,
It only means it’s time for another haircut,
Before the impinging days of Christmas
Make us fat with want,
The only respite is to cut the bois d’arc,
Stoke the fire again,
Sit at the warm hearth,
Rekindle the flames of an old book,
Then lose the sense of buyer’s remorse
That got us in this predicament,
If only we could go back
To the gifts we have returned,
Reclaim those artifacts of our life
That seemed so artificial at the time,
But those ancient histories are buried
In the last vestiges of your heart,
Where the frost now flows like a river.