Ice
in, steam out.
The
scratch of air
Spiriting
the lungs,
Fogging
the trail.
Blue
sky blazes a path
All
the way
To
the stubby
Bone
of moon.
And
at your feet,
Below
the decay,
Gray
fists of granite
Knuckle
up
From the ground
Immovable, difficult, intractable,
Like
these darkening days.
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