Poem: Outside

Yellow light from the windows
is quite deceptive
giving the illusion of warmth.
Outside the trees sway
and the bushes bend
under the weight of a winter wind.

Leaves swirl in circles
chasing each other in endless torment
whipped up in a frenzy
some manage to break away
to tumble into the street
and scattered by passing cars.

It is ice, not snow
not a spellbound wonderland
the gray sheen of treachery
clings to every surface
glittering like jeweled mirrors
foretelling disaster.

Brown grass crunch underfoot
dirt frozen solid, a dark crust
harder than the stalest loaf of bread.
Suspended in time
the ants sleep within
and dream of a long awaited spring.