Ode to 25

March 30th 2024

When I was seventeen

I dug a ditch and slept in it

for a hundred frigid nights

just waiting for the prick

of frost to rest upon my face

and arms and chest and

fingertips in frozen crystal

bites…and despite having

witnessed the passing of

five thousand

four hundred

and fifty seven moons

since that hundredth day,

sometimes I still sense

the frost when I wake.

But, nowadays the remnants

drip upon my cheeks

within a blink or two and

merely pause upon my skin

and in my pores, pooled,

until they disappear.

I wonder why the frost

still wants to come alive

and if it knows the air

is warmer at twenty five.

Feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts!