The wind from the
Cracked window
Is crisp
As it shivers
Along my
Eyelashes
Then
My lip

This boreal dance
Awakens me
Every morning
Until early spring

As one who hates
The sweat of summer
These brisk mornings
Are my everything

And when winter is birthed
The widow’s crack
It narrows
But never closes
I crave the frozen air
It blossoms something
In me
Like eleven dozen
Fresh roses