Weather

An air bites through the car-
Demolishes the doors, roof,
and windows.
On a silent bank of snow
my pen is gold,
my hands, old.
They seem to gather
up my sentiments;
exposing age spots
and soul.

Clouds sweep the sky;
A wedding train,
pulled 'long by blistered brides
whose hopes soared,
and rose too high.

The sun burns bronze
through heavy, winter grey.
It seems a cold volcano brews,
eager to make beautiful
its pain-
Eager,
to form snowflakes
of searing, lava rain.