Note

Like you said,
it’s a bitter cold.
(Is this
some kind of dark magic?)
And I hope today
you’re not working.

Or are you there,
frost biting your fingers?
This morning smelled
like unseen snow.
It shifted across the road,
mesmerizing,
making my eyes heavy.

Last week in Australia,
46.5 degrees Celsius.
I have no category
of thought in which
to file this.
Still,
today I’d gladly swap.
Which I guess means yes.
I like it less.
Especially with
no proper winter,
no proper snow.

And I hate being called “cold.”

You wrote of records
and seasons.
And is this the association
with the moment of discovery?
Or is it just the
weather cast by language?

Every new years
alone with the things
we only do alone.
And if your situation
as the new year turns
is the year’s situation,
then I can tell you,
Solitude is my favorite state.
And it’s okay.

Meandering.
It is good
for turning up loud,
but it tied my stomach in knots
when he spoke
of tumbling from grace.

Last Tuesday,
the bluebirds
sunned themselves
on the boxes,
quiet,
subtle.
You’d never know to look
if you didn’t know their voice.
Blue wing flash
on brown.

And if you do
have to bear this
frozen air,
I hope the sun
can reach through
to warm your bones.

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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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