Wide awake at four AM, 
a sore throat woke me,

throat– a word so squat and toady
no wonder things get stuck;

unspoken words a likely
cause of hoarseness, hoarse–

derived from hoar and hearse, 
old and musty, hint of deadly,

an all-but assumption of frost,
forgotten all summer until 

overnight the blades
of grass merit the sobriquet–

encased in ice they crack 
under their weight,

cue frozen creek beds, drifts
of snow, which sounds drowsy,

but no– the heaviness
of arrested motion 

is too keenly felt
in the wide open hours

of night, it’s too big
and still a space–

the moon too cold,
too bright, no matter

the blankets I pile on,
I’m frozen out of sleep

and my throat, 
it aches.