The cross-hatched frosted grass
is plastered like tundra
to its Earthen Mother-
not unlike the sinews of muscle
stiff and silent to the pangs of sleep
that creep through my morning body.
Thick and tasteless phrases harden,
icicles from between my lips
as I wake.
Yet, grass is still more like faces,
reflected in foggy windowpanes,
filtered as if under a frozen pond
marked only by the lines of
a child’s ice skates,
and reflected in puddles,
deceiving in depth,
like inverse monuments
erected to mud-dwellers.
So, I fall foul to the bluster and slush
for a moment or two,
but I am reminded that I am alive
by hot geyser breaths
that steam the atmosphere
from my chest
to the sky.