This warm air surprises me
I am not done with winter
The fat starry flakes silently layering
Their white bodies into drifts
Smoothed by wind into curls.
The air biting my face and hands.
The warmth of people in winter
chattering in the entryway, removing
shoes. We all stand in our thick socks
thirsty, waiting to come in.
Coming in is a part of winter
An invitation, a connection,
an acknowledgement
Of suffering, of a cold world.
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