frost

Harvey S. Mozolak

not a heavy cloth
but a simple tissue
small crisp crust
like rust to the rain
frost
winter’s first and last
betrayal
white bright rim
edging vivacity with duplicity
it does not stay
like snow to be hated
tracked down
and shoveled aside
it leaves only
a limp line of grief
to warm
as tears to run away
and say “it was not I”
to the waking
eye of the sun
staring quiet courage
in the march to April