Chilling Advice

Around me, trees are dying and slipping into the dirt.

Winter's words have cut deeply, and I am reduced to a moribund apparition

Surrounded by the sepulchral husks of deadened trees.

In year's previous, the frigidity was mitigated by locked fingers and lips --

But now, already, my hands are beginning to lose feeling,

And the numbness threatens to consume what sanity that remains.

If by closing these eyelids I could simply cease to be,

Would that not be easiest?

Perhaps the frost has been whispering too loudly,

But my heart is bereft and in need of rest,

However permanent.