Looking into
deep white cold
as a man in shorts
walks, bent forward
at the waist, uphill
into wind’s mouth.
I’m staying in.
I’m not
that man, apparently
comfortable with
how the wind
is blowing. With
lack of heat,
with danger of
hypothermia.
Staring into
deep white cold,
knowing
I will have to
go out into it
sometime
just as everyone
does.
Knowing
I’m in it even when
I’m snuggled down,
even when I sit back
and worry,
even when I pull
the blankets tighter.
Even this act — this
scribble of fear —
laying these threads of dark
in the middle of
deep white. Trying
to convince myself I am
dark and hot, not
white and cold,
and deeper
than these lines
on the screen.
