Nearing 11

This night is full of cold.
There are no blossoms.
My hands are curled, one inside the other
just as he would hold them.
The bluish-blackening sky is fresh,
ready to trade in the day’s cares
for night’s folly and play.
There is no sound but of muffled wind
pushing along the snow.
I button up against outside forces.
This night is full of cold.

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