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Midwinter
My breath is held
and expelled, and held...
out in the cold
clearing the air
in the woodshed
I pick through stacks
of summer-sawn logs,
yellow splintered cores
with green moss barks
to bring the best of them
to blaze into the corners
where we plot our moves
on an invisible chessboard
I cross the snow's sheen,
seven logs prickle-pressed
into my jumper, I stop
and the ice crunch stops...
I stand more still
than the scurrying wind
more still than the stars
my breath is held
and expelled, and held...
out in the cold
of midwinter.
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