The Old Grand Guest

The sunrise

kissed the icy edge of the river

pink.

It glowed

with a virginal blush.

But it did not warm

or even embarrass anything.

The sky melted pink

but all else was silver gray.

The hoary breath of January

stilled all in its path.

Even the birds

trilled only once

afraid to let the cold

know where they were.

This temporary status

aches my heart

and cools my memories

and fogs my breath

and slows my bones.

This timeless visitor

has settled into the guest room

and seems to enjoy

the waiting with no

anticipation,
hanging around
like a wet gray fog.