This morning when I got up the world was frosted.
I wait for a thick frost all winter; it’s like waiting for a letter from a friend. Branches furred, chain links gone abstract, a study in white actually cobalt-pewter-violet.
It doesn’t last long. One crisp breeze will strip away the lacy shawl and unmask the crusty, grubby, pockmarked hag that is winter clinging to March.