Pale, Shivering Hands

The garden struggles with frost
as it clings to blades of grass
that reach for sunlight and
a desperate shadow of warmth.

Morning chill leans into the day,
bright and sparse in the winds.

Inside, chipped walls hold tight to
thin clear sheets, closed and sealed,
ice white lines creeping along
edges far from the heater.

Empty trees ring with silence
and their abandoned colours.

Letters, marked red for urgent,
pile up on the kitchen table.
Pale, shivering hands clutch
a cup of sweet tea instead.


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