A speaker stands under a dull yellow streetlight, at a fork in the street, and the night wind speaks. Its message is short and a little brutal: the cold you feel isn't mine, you made it yourself.
The poem seems to be about loneliness, or emotional chill, and who is responsible for it. At first the speaker might be expected to blame the weather, the night, the empty street. The wind refuses to take that role. It hands the cold back, suggesting the speaker's coldness, whether sadness, distance, or isolation, comes from within or from choices already made. The "fork" may hint at a moment of decision, though that's an interpretation rather than something the poem states.
The mood is quiet, bare, and uneasy. The dim lamp and the night setting feel lonely, and the wind's blunt tone gives the ending a sting. There's no comfort offered, only a hard truth delivered in a few plain lines.