a containment poem
If
If winter traps us naked
into its frozen clutch,
The crispy tips of pines
will be as spikes
Defiling our flesh,
so blue,
so stiff,
so numb.
–
But if it tucks us gently
beneath its glowing shawl,
Those tips
will be the sparks
Refilling our joy,
of home,
of hearth,
of heart.
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