Winter ’22/23, Day 23

Will the warmth I feel wash away this cold breeze?
Cold water.
Cold hands.
Cold fingers.
Tireless eyes.
The ocean demands warmth.
Will I leave before it’s boiling?
If I’m on fire, why would I stop?
Or will I let the sun work for me?
This cold. This cold.
It lets me breathe like a dragon.
Icicles grip my hands.
I’ll use them to write.
Spray melts my paper.
I don’t mind.
This ephemeral age.
When I was unsure if the voices I wanted to hear were lost or silent.
What if I tell the wind to stop?
Will the waves be unmade?
In a single whisper, they heard.
Who is watching?
Watching my glorious ascent.
I just want to be warm.
And when I’m dry and the sea is still and the warmth fills me,
I’ll remember the icicles inside me.