Evergreen frost and candlelit Dickens
and a faint tang of Crest cool mint paste
swirl around my teeth and dormant words
at only four o’clock in the morning.
My sock-clad feet are melting into muddy ground, as though
I were a snowman, standing alone in a foamy sea,
whose molecules waltz intimately in the thirty-one degrees.
Winter is a time of sleeping and waiting, sometimes of dying
But it is the trying times.
A kiss of icy fingers disseminates in a gust of wind from an open door
and I suddenly know that I am alive, and there is
fire in my veins that keeps the world alive too.
When the trees are shadows and dreams are lies
and beginnings are mortal and ends are forever—
They are the trying times that hold our breaths, if time ever dies
If ends are forever.
My gloved fingers tingle and curl in the sinking moon
and eyelashes catch snowflakes like wriggling salmon in Nome
and in a single crisp corporeal second is all eternity nestled.