A cold that
ran down
To the bones at the bottom.
The wind
wasn’t tender.
It dug its
fingers deep into a pale flesh
Which tried
to live above the cold bones.
That was
true abuse!
With no
trees to hold its leash,
The wind was
free to attack
In its own relentless way.
It seemed to
laugh at the high-tech guards
Between
itself and our chilled skin.
It blew,
too, at our dust -
Dust to its
scornful breath.
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