Rising from the bitter winter and collecting in my chest,
falling from chapped lips to join the frosty air,
our breath cycles in and out, in and out, running on infinity.
The flames keep us toasty and warm, smoke wafting up
to tickle our chilly toes after peeling off twelve layers of socks.
The fire is warm. The air is cold, and snow sprinkles in an arc,
a curtain surrounding our safe haven of cozy flames.
Nonetheless, the frostnipped air seeps in, stealing the warmth
of the sparks but only replenishing itself in coldness.
And that's why I'm stuck in the indecipherable unknown:
our breath is vivid in the air, small twists and wisps of whitish
against an evergreen horizon. And I ask myself,
as I reach out to curl my tender fingers around the vivid air
we breathe (although it always seems to slip away),
is this breath finally presenting itself to our eyes
due to the comforting smoke we inhale, or the wintery
chill or the air? I ponder this for a little while, getting nowhere.
No matter. It's very beautiful, anyway. I stop trying to catch it,
those vivid wisps of twirling air we breathe, visible
in the firelight. Instead, I watch them float away
and return in a cycle: in and out, in and out, running on infinity.