The skies hold back their
white gold for now.
ground kissed by frost;
everything hard and rigid
under tired feet.
I scrape ice from the
windshield without gloves.
who needs to feel their fingers
anyway?
it's as if every particle between
my face and the stratosphere
is still, not moving so as not
to attract the attention of the
coldness. I follow their example
and look up into the night sky.
stars so clear. so many. for a while
I wonder if some divine hand
has scraped the ice from
the window to
outer
space.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
The skies hold back their
white gold for now.
ground kissed by frost;
everything hard and rigid
under tired feet.
I scrape ice from the
windshield without gloves.
who needs to feel their fingers
anyway?
it's as if every particle between
my face and the stratosphere
is still, not moving so as not
to attract the attention of the
coldness. I follow their example
and look up into the night sky.
stars so clear. so many. for a while
I wonder if some divine hand
has scraped the ice from
the window to
outer
space.
