Frosted

There is a winter night that lingers in the day,
It is frosted, chill, crisply solid underfoot,
A blanket of fog, to garland the day’s hours,
Frosted, are the skeletal trees, frosted the soil,
Stone hard, unyielding, the water rimed with ice,
None but the snowdrops brave the lazy wind,
Cold wind, unwilling to go around, works through,
The lazy wind prefers to chill bone, to the marrow,
Frosted, each surface picked out by the icy tendrils,
Weak light, makes poor the hope of warmth,
Leaves a longing for Spring’s lengthening days,
That hold a hint of warmth over the Southern horizon,
Out of sight and reach, frosted breath, held, suspended,
Frosted in the remains of the day, merges again to night,
In the deepened chill, all is hard and stilled, waiting,
Frosted, remains the winter night that lingers in the day.