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Midwinter
My breath is held
And expelled, and held...
Out in the cold
Clearing the air
In the dark woodshed
I pick from piles of
Summer-sawn logs,
Yellow splintered cores
With green moss barks
They will be carried inside
To blaze into the corners
Where we plot our moves
And overlook opposing moves
I close the woodshed door
And 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 wind scurrying
Through the chandelier pines,
More still than the stars
My breath is held
And expelled, and held...
Out in the cold
Of midwinter.
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