
The years have their own hunger.
They take what they please and return it changed.
I learned to keep a small fire under the frost,
to let the smoke rise unseen.
Sometimes the wind bends a certain way
and I think of you, half-remembered,
as though the past were calling itself home.
There will be a morning
when the air feels too still to trust.
Something will open in you then
and close in me.




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