An Edge, Serrated

Ice clumps underfoot and crunches / with each deliberate step I take / I feel alive, enlivened and the deep white / reflects off my sallow skin / The wind buffers as it bunches / restless, across my width and against / my taught, curved sides. The high sun / is a distant memory of heat and calm // Rope passes through my two hands / with the repeated chug of a train / on rails lost to the rust of nature / and the boundless chewing of time.

I puff and pant,
Slide and pull,
Step and crunch,
Lean and rise,
As I surge atop an edge, serrated.

Cold is forgotten, though assertive / pawing at scant skin, requesting / a paucity of warmth in its / simple, dumb embrace / I yield and bleed gaily into / the hollow cheeks of my face. // As we are, I can persist / rope heating my gloved fist / My eloquence is my rhythm / vibrant in its stoic surge through the mist / Senses fade, as though jaded / by time or dulled by the tempestuous / winds which rattle ceaselessly / I am hence lulled into this quaint, buoyant hope.

Though faith runs like water / between fingers blued and raw from exertion / and the lightness of spirit / can cause me to wane / like a flame in a breeze / and the tumultuous ground can eagerly / consume my body and soul in a rough whisper.

#365DaysOfPoetry

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