Winter Mornings
Those winter mornings,
when the sliding ice
lies in wait. The frost is soft,
whiter than any christening cloak.
Blue skies, pulling
you from the enveloping hearth
to where gloveless fingers
turn to white, blood retreating.
Uncovered ears bitten
by Siberian streams;
toes numbed; shivering.
Tim Fellows 2019
Image by Peggy Choucair from Pixabay
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