Where is the warmth,
not of another human,
not of the parka,
fake fur wired rim,
to take
shape and protect from
the relentless wind,
that cuts and maims,
with minute particles of
ice that travel so far,
to cut and melt on your
face, sting your eyes,
bloodied and cold,
"too bad you shaved?"
you think
out loud
talking to
no one
but the cold,
the cold
that can't
hear you    for    the    wind,
that howls at your
trespassing,
still you walk,
crunching and
leaning into and
on all things the
cold has touched.

All is white and pure,
ready for a sacrifice.

If the cold could
bury you, and
embrace you,
it would if
you let it, go get it,
take it to the cold,
be a bold fool, lean
into the wind and howl
back.

But remember,
they are relentless,
they travel in pairs
cold and wind,
wind and cold,
and you are all alone,
and that is how they
will find you in the Spring
after the cold is gone for
a season, but the wind
will move over and
watch over you, howling.

don't believe me?
Just ask the cold.