Mark this well, folks. It won't be too often you'll see poetry from me. The sophistication grieves me. It doesn't help that I naturally suspect pretension when faced with any form of poetry. Nor does it help that I have no capacity to judge poetry.
***
the times when we dimly remember skins and furs
and mammoth-tallow campfires,
and looking up at brittle-edged stars.
You notice things, appreciate them,
like the press of a warm body against you,
heat like a line of fever,
scalding so nice.
You shiver, the little muscle-trick to bring warmth
and remind your blood to keep flowing.
You ignore the burn of ear and cheek and nose,
and you sniffle and snort and snerk,
and you pretend it's not a bother.
Because really, who braves the cold anymore,
who opens up to the bracing bite
and in surrendering, conquers?
Who cannot venture forth lest they be zipped,
head to toe?
Rejoice! Rejoice where others cringe!
Fling wide your arms and cast off your coat!
Let it fly in the northern wind.
Fill your lungs and rejoice,
and watch your breath in the crisp air.
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