Avoiding Winter

For the Cramp. Say “It’s cold!” but make it a poem. 🥶🥶🥶

The poles,
from their opposite posts
in the north and the south,
sent us a message today.
Inhaling from the deepest part of themselves—
their icy tundras
their frozen waters
their frigid canyons—
they expelled a twin gasp of air
that reached us here,
in the genteel South,
an arctic cold
that colored our fingers blue
made frost of our breath
pricked icicles at our ears
and we knew then
by their frigid exhalations
avoidance was futile—
we were captured by winter.