Winter’s warning

The lampposts stand, stoic and lonely, spirits overlooking the barren land. Their light’s turned cold, same as the air’s developing bite. It’s only natural; winter drags in a reality both harsh and unforgiving, unrelenting in its frigid austerity. How could anything not bare its teeth in response? The chill is seeping into my fingertips, turning my blood to ice. My northern attitude creeps back in, darkening my vision, and I start to feel I’m on shaky ground. I’m overlooking a precipice; one foot in today, the other in a clouded future. I can discern from it nothing but terrifying probabilities. The cold wraps its fingers around the base of my spine and whispers: the friends you know today will be blurry ghosts of themselves come tomorrow. They’ll never regard you without frost in their hearts and eyes. I pray my sense will return when I thaw.