Cold Front

There comes claret coldness on the land, creeping haze heralding change. It is a moody mist— an earthen kiss, a lingering at grave’s lip that lifts us away. Temperatures fall in flaxen fields of gray— a soft hiss of rain heckles sky. There is a coldness in blood, a letting, a lost begetting of time and landscape. The hard freeze is near— a sheer plunge, a refutation of words that warm souls, send us beyond clouds to light— cold and bright as cracked mirrors of winter lakes spilling empty our opal eyes.