Nothing by the frost on my fingers
Is carried home
Could've had a more productive day from bed
Eager to get back out there
Marching sun
Ain't marching so far these days
Not yet used to this shadowless place
Ice hangs from my sleeping breath
Night holds a curtain up
Air promising nothing
Nothing but a bundle of sticks and twigs
Is left to burn
Could've let the whole house up for warmth
Easier done than said
Lakes to the south carry birds' cries
Across the frozen ground
New life becoming predator and prey
Day becoming night becoming day