Just Chill

Stinging fissures

On arid pink knuckles

On hands gloveless and mittenless

As crispy crunch and crackle

And squeak like Styrofoam friction

Trickles up from frosted grass

That will disappear by eleven past

Eight

Dry eyes blinking

Against wind biting through

Double layers and hood up

Exposed cheeks tightening

And skin chilling

Where socks don’t meet the ankle

Smack chapping lips

At that distinct taste

Of lack of taste

Nerve stimulation

Flavors bright and crisp

Roll over the tongue

With every inhale

And every exhale

Now made manifest

Lungs prickle and they burn

Sweet pain in the chest

As the conversation of temporary neighbors

Reaches my muffled ears

There’s a high pitched trilling

And a sighing whistle

Cedar Waxwing flock

Makes it all official

But now it’s time

To go back inside

I'm cold