The Coming Frost

Crawling on to a craggy cliff

Stretched on a rock, I catch a whiff

of frost-nipped poignant pine.

Rocky ridges map my spine.

Secondhand warmth chases the chill

on the sun baked rocks of the south faced hill.

I sniff the sharpness of the coming freeze

heaving up on the nightly breeze.

When the moon comes up, the frost will settle

over the valley like a dew-dropped petal.

But for now, only stars puncture the gloom

A peek through the curtains of a celestial room.

Echoing off of the canyon wall,

I hear the moan of an owl's call,

And the weeping of the river far beneath

Meandering on toward the wild heath.