marigold (b)looming

the marigolds
have frosted over
and the vines that climb
the brick wall outside my window
are bloody orange and crimson;
my eyes are tired
and my lips are chapped
from cold, 
my hair
is a twilight halo
blown about my face
by the east wind. 
and I know,
like the marigolds,
I am on the brink
of an end.
I know that soon I’ll hit it -
but ‘soon’ is not a 'when.’
so I wait,
like the marigolds,
for dusk -
and the frost 
that goes with it.