Road salt staining
white-forever marks
onto swede boots:

tread worn down
into a pale brown husk.
Ice paved path,
The moon doesn’t shine tonight.

The woods whisper their
soft ever-present
January melodies.

Paralyzing;
ice spreading
through fingertips.
Frost crystalizing on eyelashes,
like icicles in the frozen night:
Just Go On.

Crumbled road salt.
Broken boots
Worn body,
torn heart:

Just Go On.

Cold breath
cascading
through ridged air
“brisk” is too soft a word
for cold like this;

The kind of cold
that seeps through
your clothing,
invading even your
worn
road salt scorn
boots.

Torn heart;
worn body;
broken boots;
frozen breaths;

no moon tonight:

Just Go On.