21December grows old
The high hills sugar-dusted
My toes feel like ice
A few days of rain
Once-hard earth yields to my step
And puddles linger
A wint'ry wind blows
Mesquite leaves close ere nightfall
Clouds pushed so swiftly
A seasonal smell
The air tastes of long, cold nights
Our ancient instinct
Winter-painted sky
A screen so thick but varied
Through which the sun shines