I went from being a frozen tundra:
algid, wide and growing fields of
ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow
unless the wind was kind
and left the prints
which it wasn’t often.

taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak;
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while
before we  cut those
meek coughs off.
before they form into spit,
white noise, handwritten

I sprout into a raging sun

“the desert”

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