Final Frost

For the first time in five long years,
I see the snow my puppy fears.
I rush outside, where the numbing wind
wraps around me, cold and thinned,
as if we were meant to be
bound together, endlessly.
Beneath my feet, the ice grips tight,
swallowing steps in endless white.
 

Each rooftop, each street, is draped in snow,
a silent threat we come to know.
The storm advances, bold and fast,
a war-torn army built to last.
Inside my home, the screen reveals
a broadcaster’s voice that reels—
his words fight free but lose their place,
the wind assaults him face to face.
 

My mother hands us steaming mugs
as we sit on old sewn rugs.
A sip of tea restores my breath,
but its hue reminds me of death.
The wind screams loud, it pounds the door,
demanding entrance, waging war.
My father braces, firm and tall,
to keep the frost beyond our wall.
 

My mother grabs the final planks
to shield us from the storm’s attacks.
But then—glass shatters, shards take flight,

a warning from the ruthless white.
The wind has come; its rage persists.
No help will come, no hands assist.
Out of hope, I sit and cry,
watching winter’s wrath draw nigh.
 

I glance beyond the fractured pane
and find a world I knew in vain.
No colors left, just shades of gray,
the past erased and stripped away.
A car entombed, a street gone blind,
a town consumed, a fate unkind.
 

Soon our home, so bruised and old,
will fall before the stormy cold.
Without a doubt, we’re bound to lose,
with frozen limbs in icy hues.
And so we wait—still, silent, slight—
against the grip of endless white.