early chill

outside the winter storm is pelting down

with ancient power recalling us to true

vision of our places so then we rue

both the larger anger and the lesser frown

each gout of pressure under which we drown

unheeded here withheld from public view

still grasping for some force that would renew

each broken heart and smile at each sad clown

tonight we’re promised snow that will not stick

to the warm ground and ice that will not chill

for any length of time the naked skin

yet winter ‘s taking only the first lick

at these soft hides there’s still much room for ill

since we are in a race the clock must win