The smoke of our fire spindles towards the frozen indigo sky in threads of grey
Breaking apart constellations with sloppy stitches of opacity
Tearing the neat order of the constellations marching
across the sky into a shifting cacophony of lines.
And you and I sit
Knotted about our fireplace
Cocooned in scarves and quilted jackets, wrapping ourselves about
A circle of rocks with a birchbark-fed flame.
The eager puppy flame licks us with eager tongue but cannot warm us.
And the cold sits, like an old friend,
in our bones.
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