winds ripe for Christmas, cutting,
seers through my old skin and
frozen hands. But oh sweet wind
blow hard and cold, I will not remember you,
fewer and fewer are my days
I don't care how much you bite me.
forgotten blasts scurrying across the fields
bare and barren trees
faded into time itself and
these black skeletons wet
from last nights rain are
all that remains of my
Decembers.
Let me enjoy you now with
your whetted edge, biting into
aching bones,
Come, blow my scarf across my face
blast and blow
echo down my chimneys
scare the gulls
just let me have
one more December.
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