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The tip-toed snowfall mocks
combustible desires
darkened by unsprung weather.

Familiar streets become
forgotten, past life
amnesia inflicted,
knotted in memory.

Whiteout.

The folk sleep entombed,
ablaze with summer fire.
My breath is heavy with manna,
dispersed bitterly. Yet,
I pack my own heat.

Drenched fire, raging,
whipped by winter’s last breath,
soaks up the pain
and sops up the sorrow.

The phoenix ascends from ashes,
shrugging off the death cool,
and takes quietly, triumphantly
and naturally to wing. For,
I pack my own heat.

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