Breath escapes our lips
like puffs of smoke from a fired cannon
Red soldiers of the Wind
infiltrate our noses
Extremities go numb
before small pinpricks march in
Eyelashes fend off
a barrage of snowflake missiles
launched from the heavens
And hats counter-attack
that bastard, Jack Frost,
and his hold on our ears
But the greatest warrior
here on the front-line
is his hand,
wrapped around mine
tighter than a tourniquet-
He whispers
"I'll never stop fighting for you."
lovely is this ode, like a ale that never lays flat but keeps its head till the end, which reminds me that once my hand was held like a tourniquet, save the stigmata healed too fast and the hold didn't last.
