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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 through the piles
of summer-sawn logs,
yellow splintered cores
with green moss barks

to bring the best ones
to blaze into the corners
where we plot our moves
and overlook opposing moves
on an invisible chessboard

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 scurrying wind
in 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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