A poem for the Secret Keeper’s five word prompt.
KIND | RUDE | FIT | EMBRACE | MISTAKE
In the hush of night, the cold is rude.
Frost feather-ruffles with frozen fingers,
fitting into any lock, beneath any door;
no nest or lair resists.
Beneath the cruel winking of the stars,
the pheasant stirs, caught
in the unbearable embrace of chill wind.
No kindly wing covers and protects,
no error pardoned—fox sniffs
the frozen air, and the night is stirred again
with cold blood.