The day started in freezing fog and changed its mind.
Morning in winter,
when silence is fog-thick, tiles
cold beneath the feet, breath clouds,
and between its walls, house
hunches, waits for the sun, bird-wreathed.
Birds bloom in the sun
where the cold was, the frost-fur,
golden where silver spun sharp
grass blades, keen as north winds,
fluttering façade, the house sighs,
and in the cold fields,
the same magic pours, green-gold,
coaxing shoots through orange sods,
though winter’s arm is long,
still poised among the clear night stars.