How do I trust

In the sky

streaked with light and color and

cold, set into each bone.

In the way water freezes,

or seems to

as it streaks my face,

then steams against the screams of wind,

carving paths down both cheeks

turned to ice.

 

I am not made of solid stuff

then how do I

 

when the heat has gone out,

the last red glow of sun gone unnoticed again,

how do I trust that we are still alive,

again,

 

as my body melts into the air.

31poemsMegan Jones