Criticism

Words that isolate and snowball,
Biting like a frost and
Plowed.
When a blizzard’s ice sickles, the cuts run deep,
And render callous cemetery.
Let the storm ragdoll me down the side of a mountain,
Or abandon me gravely, snow-buried.
But how the driven snow yearns for creation,
And even the faintest flickers churn in a hearth of bone.
A sunless sky still warms through the bluster.
Grit.
And light will break even a midwinter’s muster.