Soul's Winter Night

It’s the coldest night so far and I’m reminded of poem I wrote a 2–3 years ago 

 

 Soul's Winter Night

Upon the winter night.
So full of the moon,
of light of its full face.
Still shadows are thrown down.
On snow  not white
but fill too, with moonlight.
Cold creates a stillness
With that one step, place.
It has change, another theme.

High in my window, I watch
to see if any animals are out.
Only footprints are for this hour.
Black glass is cold, even
with this forehead resting on it.
No frost, just condensation,
which I draw a finger through.
Tomorrow the line will remain.

Oh it's cold in this room.
The bed has no mind
and does not know.
Its occupier is awake.
Has no mouth either,
to call whoever for a return.
No one knows, except for me

Awake on this cold night.
Looking into a world.
Who is night and now
a unreal day of snow.
Color to something unearthly,
instead of the pure white.
Tomorrow this should be
a dream, not of a moment.
Where a soul, lives for an hour.