The air is raw

and smells of ice and smoke.

The land is cleared of distraction,

everything unhidden,

everything laid bare.

Above is the lightest turquoise stone,

very smooth,

and the sunset

casts periwinkle shadows

on the white reposing drifts

that fall and collect

with a sound louder than silence.

The flame flickers cold,

and night comes early

onto the bony black fingers

that scrape against the turquoise.

2 thoughts on “Bitterkalt

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