I remember the mornings,
when the cold had crept
so thoroughly
through the house
that there were icicles
at its window frames,
and at the edges
of your words.
And how each of us would drift
through our routines and
down the staircase
in a mist,
closely focused on each step
because we knew that
there were cliffs
we could not see.
How, if we spoke, it was
like sacrificing breath.
And so we
rationed ourselves,
carefully preparing
only what was needed
to survive
these bleak winters.
That cold can reach me yet,
though it’s been years
since we were bound by
all that ice.
And I became so used to mist
that I’m still learning
how to look
further ahead.
But cold spells never do last.
And, having lived through
all these storms,
I am prepared.
I remember how I learned
to make my own warmth.
And I know how
to shovel
snow.
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