Frost-Ridden

The ice descends,
And burrowers sleep
Below the frostline.
But it’s hard to know,
Yet,
If this winter will take,
And old men
Give divergent accounts,
With no woolly bears
To tell tales.

Still, the sun thaws
Bonechill,
And my ink has not frozen,
Yet.
The culling’s begun.
So we fortify
Bone and blood
With this frost.

Let the earth slide
Below our feet
In glacial progress.
Let
The illusion of solidity
That contains the flexibility
Of this blue ice
Protect us.

Watchful,
We join the predators
For a morning.
Yet,
An angle of sun
Snags the rust-stained
Grass —
Evidence of weakness’s passage.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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