Each inhale, a slice of chill to the lungs.
Each exhale, a cloud.
Another inhale, we live on a cloud
made of exhales, with wind sneaking up the sleeves of our coats.
Aren’t they supposed to inhale the warmth of our bodies
and keep out the creeping cold? Exhale.
Inhale the way the wind winds through the billion bare branches
of trees and exhales down our necks.
Sometimes shimmering shards of snow – sharp inhale –
make our shoulders shiver as we exhale
a fog of inhaled plans,
dreams, ideas, exhale,
into the snow, into our hearts, inhaling
the joy we’re supposed to exhale
and hold in half-frozen fingers for an inhale
of one, two, three, four.
Exhale.