you told me to prep for a new season, that what was dying is now dead
said we must steel ourselves with warmth against the first frost, it was the worst no
it was a testament or
just a test
& here, where we carve our winters from the gentle curve of the ampersand
from punctuation that's meant to bring us closer but only moves us further apart
like the swell of a gentle tide &
even the beach must face bitter winds filled with eburnean matter meant to cling to our skin
we will reenact this act, this ampersand
you are the skin
i am the surf no
i am the sand
no
i am the snow
&
nothing is warm