Winter hates me

The ground is loosing all integrity
in the onslaught of damp, lashing spits
of spears honed with icy breath.
Cold. This mud is not welcoming or enjoyable,
it does not splash pleasantly.
It sticks to you where you do not need it,
sucking at the warmth you thought your feet held.
No longer. If it were stronger you might lose a shoe.
Heels incongruous and geometrical next to the
shapeless pools of unknowing depth.
Puddle, a deceptively gentle word.
Lagoons, ready and unfathomably wet.

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