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The frost coats my windshield,  ignores the sunrise

my breath a small cloud as I scrape two circles on the glass

one front,  one back  

 

I imagine you are inside the car

fingers in bright red mittens

wrapped around a mug of coffee,

waiting 

 

for the horizon to turn blue 

for the defrost to finish its job

for the heater to warm up your feet 

 

for me 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze

as soon as they are uttered.  Plutarch

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