headlights masquerade behind frosted glass,
and in cooled valleys the voices of birds are muted,
somehow furled against wind's icy bite.
Early morning, I sit in my night-frigid car for long moments,
listening to the nervous purring of her still-child intestines,
and watching the high golden sun-line on the hills,
as far from dripping honey-warmth on me as summertime.
And the coldness of the air is not the wind-chill of Earth's breath,
nor is the pinch of frozen water, or the shiver in my fingertips;
but the hunger of the void of space, chilled Pluto's grasping at life,
the blinding dark that resides outside the hearth of my home.
While the tinder-arc of Mercury sizzles in eternal summer sun,
Europa's icy crust sips solar rays with unrelenting glacial thirst,
taking that little sun that would warm my toes this morning
and bring waiting jonquils to fragrant surface bloom.