A Poem a Day (546): Frost

 
Frost
 
Winter’s harshness wanders in,
mist and rain and restless doubt.
Snow courses through the kitchen,
smothering idle clove and cinnamon,
emptying its hands in the corners.
An icy gail blows down quiet corridors
to batter upon the chill windowpanes
where the frost posts its fingerprints.
 
Even the trees are gathering in,
creeping closer from the forest heart,
uprooting, dragging so many histories
on spiky branches through the hall,
broken twigs walking the twisted staircase
like abandoned breadcrumbs.
 
The eyes of this house watch the flow
of night, chimney sending up smoke signals
to the new year, emptying itself out,
memories speckling the walls like powder.
Ghosts wander the rooms looking for insight
and someone to whisper their stories to,
but only the trees can hear. Outside, the forest
vibrates with the echo of nature’s hum.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January 3, 2023