It’s not only the snow
though its downy drifts
linger and sharpen
into vast gray slabs.

My toes go numb
through thick socks,
icicles bundled in wool.

It’s not only the wind
though it shrieks,
pricking and biting
like glassy shards.

My bones, sheathed
beneath layers of fleece,
emit their creak.

It’s not only the clouds
though they shroud
thinning sunlight
in boundless shadow.

My cheeks flush,
redden as if in shame,
enflamed by frost.

It’s mostly the solitude
as the world settles,
sinks into the lap of home,
and closes the shutters.

 

Phyllis Frakt started writing poems after retiring from a career in higher eduction. She has published previous poems in The Ravens Perch and in Worksheets, New Verse News, and Second Coming. She lives in New Jersey