Surfacing
December eats whatever fat
the wind carries with it.
You imagine the windows, the drapes,
all rounded and curved,
no sharp corners in this ocean of you.
Short-lived circulating thoughts
glimmer and fade,
minnows darting from nowhere
to nowhere.
Your body-heat, fish-tails over
dark waves.
The cold is still too deep,
a dim dawning shore
still too far above you,
and so, you rise slowly
in the hollow shell
of a diving bell
you have yet to call your own.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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