From The Cold

In from the cold


The whiteness has no warmth,
only the wind, which blows
hard through the cloth
like arrows of ice.

The hairs of your nostrils
freeze together
up into your forehead,
the formaldehyde scent
of the air below zero.

Cardinal cuts the sky,
a drop of blood out
of the blue into the emerald.

Hemlock, as deep a green
as all of spring;
winter cannot touch it.