‘I’ve run in the winter

With cold feet, brittle ice

Sending angled signals

Away from me as if

The ice beneath me must

Warn its brethren.

 

We are shod in last year’s

Season, found by our mothers,

Discarded by Autumn,

But still something of our

own. When the tapestry

Of suspended water

 

Subsides and our toes take

Rose as their proper hue,

We will hold ourselves still

in the blushing dusk and

forget how the Winter

ran away with our blood.