In these moments,
life's slow plodding becomes a gallop instead.
Sloping strides, fists unfurled for aerodynamic's sake,
and maybe by relaxing the knuckle.
We move so quickly on spindly legs,
fast enough that the wind seals up our wounds.
Places we were sure would never stop bleeding
seem sealed tight by living out in the air again.
But the slowing down is inevitable.
We will surely make it home in time to warm up.
We will curl up our bodies, feeling healed
by the movements of fast freezing.
Then the warmth of homefires softens
the raw places, and the moisture creeps in again.
Blood and tears in those quiet moments.
How fast and cool the days must move
to keep the quiet away.
(This poem needs some work, a project to get back to.)
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