watching fire and ice in the north,
contemplating frost’s apocalypse
as the vortex descends and patrollers
expand fractures into crumbling concrete.

and so i sit shivering
like a rabbit in the snow,
wondering if i still know
how to whistle.

just pucker your lips and
blow a cloud into the cold,
hope to find the fire in
the quivering soul

when the time comes,
as time always comes.
they say things will get better,
but that doesn’t help now.
they say things will get worse.
i can only imagine how.

i wish for a hole in the ground,
to huddle in the earth.
i wish for a bullet.
i wish for a bed.
i wish for snowfall and silence,
for mist instead of smoke.

is there will in a wish,
a spine in a dream,
a warmth to glow golden
in the thawing heart?
do we get to see the spring
or remember what it means?