Cold Front

The front blew through on the north wind
and the cold is inside me again,
like rats in the walls,
scrabbling to get out.

Outside, the delicate flower pedals and
hesitant, budding trees
shake in the insistent wind,
bending low under the stale slate sky.
Color drains from the new growth and I expect snow stained red and yellow.
What there is grows colder and more colorless every day.