Start at the edges
where it begins to fold
into frozen pond,
run your fingers
slowly
between that tiny
seam of earth and sky,
warm gradually,
feel for the ember,
it's under thin ice,
press it to your palm
allow that cool rind
of doubt to soften
wrap it thrice around
your first thought
after waking,
blow them both a kiss
with swish of
swallow
it can scatter stupid
notions
about brittle and
hope and winter.
there, already
this steely mood
shifts,
pewter sky to morning
robe;
the rest is duck
soup.
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