windchill

on a moon-lit, winding road,
the chilly, grave wind
rubs out the snow-flakes dry and round,
till they look like white-ash:
cold-burnt and marble-white

a mile away, on a shivery grassland,
wool-warmth sparks in happy, golden eyes,
chirpy pine twigs burn and burn,
merry little sparks make little clouds
and some white-ash.


--Milind