Falling Under the Sun

It burns, this fire of ice and snow and wind—

sinks claws into my throat

snakes tendrils up nostrils

and sandpapers my unfinished cheeks.

Perhaps it would be gentler if I loved it—

would caress instead of attack

would embrace instead of harm.

Perhaps acceptance will never change

what nature intended.

But I will make peace with fate

regardless of where it leads—

and this bitter winter will dog my heels

and make mockery of the brightest sun.