winter lungs

in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
down grass,

birds sing less and boys wear more. boys that wear the
checked patterns in dyed wool. clouds that look like
wallpaper ash swing through like lines of logging saws.
so,

say that something else comes. magpies are drawn
to such omens, as the only sentinels left, to dine on them
and be ready for that something else which comes.

that something else, that quick at the end of a whip
of wind.

that something else, the white draw from your mouth
suspended in the light.

store up and live.

hold close and be warm.

whisper goodbye to a present sun, wait through the night
with belly deep breath, like crossing the 25 meter 89 celsius
pool, one deep breath under 1.5 meters of heavy warm water,
one long way under one constant muffle.

the draw back in will be sharp, and will taste like the time you
gasped at snow for the very first time, and frozen air
shocked your rose pink lungs, new to the world but now,
again, the world can be new.

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