The Body Remembers Cold

“Frost is the hand that teaches the body its boundaries.”

The chill reaches me before the snow.

It settles into the marrow of my hands,

sinks through my boots

until even the stones seem to pulse with frost.

✦

Each breath rises visible,

a fragile ghost that breaks in the air.

My lips taste of iron,

my tongue of ash,

the cold pressing its story against my teeth.

✦

The pines exhale resin, sharp and green,

the scent stinging as though the forest bleeds.

I lean into their shadows,

their bark rough against my palms,

their silence steadier than mine.

✦

In this body of earth and air,

I feel the turning.

Autumn loosens its cloak,

and winter fastens it around my shoulders.