Frost by Alice B. Fogel
The window is a clear
still river not unlike air
its quiet lingering
a devotion a study
in convergence
of outside & in
on it the frost a scrim
formed of cool fall
dawn & sleep’s heat
can you not feel this
touch with your hands
the rime on the glass
that dampens our skin
each side longing
for the other
for the opening
of the window