Cold

Cold,
in the way of frozen,
wasting ice:
the arctic's night
of every creature
running toward the hope
of morning light.

This is,
in ways unknown,
the landscape of cities
filled with men:
the white bunny soul,
the hunting bear soul,
the sleeping seal soul.

All wait for the day
as chill bites the limbs
of their fading hope.
When comes the day?