Zero Degrees

Unfortunate wind pushes back against an open door, 
into wonder, hidden behind a window. 
Warm breath of fog against a pane, 
clouds a mysterious portrait, of curious woods, 
cloaked in a blanket of white. 
Dreams walk silent, beneath gray arms, 
dull and bare, by dead skeletons of weeds. 
Waving limbs and rustling stalks shiver, 
but winter’s wish can’t shake them to life, 
in the cold light of a sun, whose back is to us. 
While I, retreated, to see, 
from a warm, thick chair……………………….sleep
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