Mid-October

[novapsyche]

Here we are, not even at the start of winter
and already one can perceive the heart of winter,

snowfall clopping down on our necks, a white anvil.
Making us fear its weight is not so smart of winter

otherwise ingenious of insinuating
itself inside our clothes. Soon a part of winter

blooms in our breath and seeds within our bones, a thread
cross-stitched and stitched again. That's the art of winter.