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.