I step outside on this morning
into air as thin as nothing,
some forty-five degrees below zero,
when it moves.

It moves.

Ice forms casually, like an assuming guest,
upon my beard and mustache
idly tilted ground-ward
on this morning.

It was only slightly warmer
4,759 days ago
alongside Lake Michigan’s frozen shore
when I asked her hand.

I do not remember
what erratic range of temperatures
might have been recorded
in the elapse.

It will not have mattered by this morning’s end;
only, I’ll remember:
I had a wife.

It’s a warmer forecast for tomorrow.


About A. S. Ellis

I am always learning. Always. And that is as it should be.
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