coldness grows on my body,
a languid form, a clambering
from a tired hearth of warmth
as the last smoke quenched
the winter.

it came as if invited,
an opening of a door-
performing as a long known friend,
a slow one, absent the need of hurry
my body stiffened, 
the smell of sulphur replaced
with road salt and slush.

my limbs could not move
when it stands over me-
its touch lingers in my veins
as my blood becomes stagnant,
pooling neither inward nor outward;
even now, it remains in the frost.

the exhaustion overtakes my
body, still being held up
by a chair, never moving,
never changing, the tempest raging on-
i focus on the sound
of the wind.