By Degrees
Spilling from the lintel,
a pitcher saves the ice from anonymity.
Rafters creak, the sounds of winter
rattle through the cabin eerily.
Memories of dead and gone,
whistles of wind, the monotony
whispers and drags through the days
like a chilling lament.
Hours burn so slowly,
like embers refusing to ebb,
reminiscences stutter
and fade, no lasting testament.
Evenings and mornings
now bleed with the same deep regret;
he's losing all feeling,
as cold as cold can get.
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