there's an ache in my chest
in between all of our ribs

for sunlight kisses
and the warm wind's breath
on my neck

the wind swiftly sweeps snow
into curved corners
and sharp edges
into drifts
and the snow
drifts

but minds
and hearts
drift
to thoughts of spring

it doesn't feel
like new beginnings outside
when there's black ice at every turn

but when snow falls it's possible to pretend
that the world is erased
and with it
all mistakes

there's quiet on the wind
(no longer a breeze)
as though this whole curve
of the Earth
is holding its breath
waiting
for snow

there's a kind of hangover
that starts with grey days
and cold nights

but there's a certain clarity
to biting air and grey skies
with snow on the wind

it's always some kind of perfection outside
(the perfect storm,
the perfect blue,
the perfect colour leaves,
the perfect temperature)

and yet
it's midterm season