I love the winter wind
that burns in me, while outside
the eaves are powdered down with perfect snow—
like an eagle’s skull dried and crushed to dust
then scattered over the gables
to warn the other birds;
a loved one releases
the contents of an urn in the wind—
cold ash curls and eventually ends.
In the winter, alike
each ache or breeze beneath our skin
will burn until the season’s over.
W. Oliver Hunt
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