A Cold Wind Blows
poem for the given temperature
A cold wind blows through the hollow fields,
whispering secrets to the dying leaves,
pulling them from their fragile stems,
spinning them into the grey and endless sky.
It moves like a phantom down empty streets,
rattling shutters,
pushing against the doors of houses where light still burns,
where warmth still lingers in the air.
It hums through the broken ribs of the old barn,
where dust rises in spirals,
where the ghost of a voice might once have sung,
but now only silence remains.
A cold wind blows over the river’s blackened surface,
slicing it into ripples that stretch and shatter,
as if searching for something lost beneath—
something buried in the deep.
It pulls at the coat of the wanderer,
his footsteps fading into frost-laced earth,
his face turned downward against the unseen hands
that press against his skin.
A cold wind blows through the trees,
bending their skeletal limbs,
making them creak and whisper to one another,
as if remembering a time before winter came.
It slips beneath doors, through keyholes,
curls around the ankles of the sleepless,
sending shivers up spines,
reminding all who feel it that night is long,
that the fire burns lower than before.
A cold wind blows over forgotten graves,
where names have been erased by time,
where stone crumbles like brittle paper,
where no footsteps dare to linger long.
It drifts into the empty chapel,
through shattered glass where once colors danced,
where prayers once rose like smoke,
but now only dust settles in its place.
A cold wind blows through city streets,
down alleys where the lost gather,
where voices echo in the dark,
where hands reach for warmth but find only air.
It howls between towers of glass and steel,
whistling through narrow corridors,
rattling neon signs that flicker and die,
casting the world in shades of grey.
A cold wind blows against the ocean’s edge,
where waves crash and pull away,
where footprints are swallowed as soon as they’re made,
where ships vanish beyond the horizon’s grasp.
It climbs the mountains,
pressing against the faces of those who dare to ascend,
whispering warnings in their ears,
reminding them how small they are against the sky.
A cold wind blows,
and with it, the past rises like mist,
half-formed memories drifting on the air,
slipping through fingers, never settling, never still.
It carries voices from another time,
laughter that fades before it is understood,
words spoken but never quite heard,
names that dissolve before they are recalled.
A cold wind blows,
and all the world bends to its will.
It takes what it wishes, leaves nothing behind,
except the echo of its passing—
and the knowledge that it will return again.