I know the numb bliss
of ice gripping mountain tops
and wind licking lichened rocks.
I know the hairs that rise on skin
like spring on a cloak of snow — I’ve been
to spring before, you know.
But it was so very long ago.
I know the numb kiss
of sleep before a winter’s plight;
somehow I’ve made it all these nights
even as my veins turn to stone.
The chambers of my heart groan
as glaciers crashing in my chest,
but I don’t remember the rest.
I will surely miss
the scent of summer’s thighs
back when I sat in sunrise,
but she complained of my weight
and now I’m forced to hibernate.
Hush has fallen white and dumb;
and I am blissfully numb.