When the snow comes

Beautiful women.
Noses pink at the very tip
because the bite of the air is stronger today.
Scarves wrapped about their necks
like weapons, relaxed,
fortifying them against the blustering,
(fucking thing) wind.
Women come into their own in the winter.
Gone are clothes that wrap and
bind and wind about our lungs
so tight we can’t walk right.
Legs left to grow gently curling fur
rather than scraping blades
across raw skin again and again.
Jumpers so big the sleeves
come past our wrists,
billowing comfort and the
utter safety of weighted wool.
When the snow comes,
we are ethereal queens
with glittering lashes,
no more rashes.


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