Breath

Waiting.

Immobile, chin tucked against the winter cold, I stand as ever,

common and ordinary as the wind ridge on the snowfield.  

It is late, and 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. 

 

The End

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