The cold stings, and burns
The ground feels like it's covered
With thousands of upturned barbs
Penetrating my already swollen feet.
Clouds loom, but produce no moisture
Save humidity, making the air thick
And hard to breathe.
The trees reach out with bony-fingered branches
Shivering without foliage to keep warm.
I cling to my sweater: tattered, buttons missing,
Mere threads giving it shape.
No flutter of wings breaks the frigid silence
No rustling leaves or scurrying creatures
To alter the empty isolation.
All are gone: starved, eaten or frozen.
Only the cold remains...
And the cold stings and burns.
Caren E. Salas
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