Dead of winter

I fold myself into Nordic socks

because the patterns speak to me

and I’m cold in an empty house.

Nobody bothered to tell me

I’d wake up with no face

or that the sky would fail to rouse me

because sadness weighs more than clouds.

I cook the meat and stir the stale air.

Tomorrow may be different

but only as far as the sun’s reach

because I’m in a constant spin.

I wonder if the flowers will return.

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