The frost coats my windshield,  ignores the sunrise

my breath a small cloud as I scrape two circles on the glass

one front,  one back  


I imagine you are inside the car

fingers in bright red mittens

wrapped around a mug of coffee,



for the horizon to turn blue 

for the defrost to finish its job

for the heater to warm up your feet 


for me 













Anisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze

as soon as they are uttered.  Plutarch

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