It's really fucking cold.

Now I know 

Of that bone cold wind.

Winter that eats you. 

I can recognise 

Ice with glinting eyes,

paths that lie 

in wait. It is the cold 

known by Death. 

Pressed on nose and jaw,

marked in the red, 

a blushing knife of living

brought to the surface and

painfully stuffed 

into boot and glove. 

Winter’s glee; 

the ends are the first to go.