12.31

wide flat snow fields fade up

into the sky, pink blushes sliding by

at the horizon as we travel north

towards homes that have

forgotten the prairie runs which

gave them life.

breath catches in our throats

like a knife’s edge sighing through

layers of thought, the quiet,

simple cold fitting upon us like

the scabbard of a king: royal,

sacred, and longing to be filled.

at the turning of the year life hovers,

breathes, and moves on.

and we perhaps make too much

of the passing. as if the fields would

not be as quiet and open and filled

with light, if we did not mark them.

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