Somebody I know once said the cold is part of him.
The Danish part,
or some loose remnant piece, left-over
from the Vikings, or some such,
in spring air, always
remembering snow, ice
He’s a story-teller, storying
an origin space with a state of mind.
Joy is reaching a stiff finger towards the cold air
to find it warmer,
when the heart roars loudly, riding
on the memory of sails
broken out of winter’s iron nails.
So am I.
I’m proud to be jacket-less
when the day I think is winter turns to spring.