Poem – What is Still, Still Moves

Heart of winter is ironic
as nothing moves in this cold

there is no hot blood though veins
keeping extremities alive.

As I stand frozen on the patio
even my breath escapes slightly

before the immortalized
words hang in the air.

There is a shift in what you see when
the clearest blue sky collides

with white coated earth, what should
be a defined boundary, with definitions

and delineations, wavers and moves.

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