The Whistling Wind

Through the cracks
I feel the colds
Soft silk touch
Slow to draw
The warmth from off
My flesh
Outside
I hear it call
Telling me to hurry
There
Come see what has
Been done
I’m no fool
I see
Through those
Same old cracks
How the withered grass
Roughly bent
Blows
I see the hard clasped oak
Leaf
Trembling there
Like clothes
On the line
Even the snow white
Clouds
Begin to blush
Pink
As the setting sun
Bleaches hard
Across a barren
Sidewalk
I know
And I will not
Go
For only the brighter
Shades
And pastels of
Spring to come
Will pull me out
From this warm
House