Where I am living

It’s winter, and where I am living

the ground is either rock solid

and jagged, jutting at angles

which turn your ankles as you

walk. Or the mud has turned 

to mousse, whipping up in

great squelching curls around 

your boots. Water pours over

the lip, the tongue, intertwines

with laces and makes 

puddles that sit in the archway

of your foot, cold toes. 

On the horizon the sun sets, 

or is it rising? Trees making 

silhouettes that reach upward,

strong at first, before splitting,

creating capillaries, lungs

breathing, retrieving what

seemed gone. Redeemed. 

Rich evergreen heather, 

weaves with the hay-like

grasses, browns that turn

gold that turn grey that turn

yellow that turn back to green,

seen as far as I feel I can walk

before it’s dark. I don’t own 

any gloves and my fingers 

are starting to go numb, I hear 

your footsteps crunch, crunch, 

crunch. You have gloves and your 

hand locks into mine, creating

a warmth that is so much more

than heat. With that we beat 

a track back home.