This is a Winter Poem

I will not lament summer's absence.
I do not cry out for air
thick as stew,
for children laughing wildly
in the sticky streets.
I like it when everything's dead.
the trees, naked as the
day they took root,
the sun burning
from so far away, it's
luminance in rations.
It offers
no relief,
no easing warm fingertip brush
to stiff and chapped cheeks.
She is all the more cruel in evening;
the moon is left to speck
a voluminous sky,
the winking eye of a god
poised to vigilance
as the earth withers and wanes.