Immobile,
chin tucked
against the winter cold,
I stand as ever,
common as the wind ridge
on the snowfield.
It is late,
evening is near,
and my breath shallows.
Oh, to be subsumed by the warmth,
if only once,
to spin dizzily and happily ‘round
in the bright circle
so that I may,
at last,
exhale.

Writer, poet, bibliophile, animal lover

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