Winter

I like to pretend in winter
that the knee high drifts
are the ashes of souls I will never meet,
half converted to glass,
the other half turned to vapor,
clinging to droplets of water overhead
for lack of religions staying power
once a body has
given up the ghost.

The crick of a smile
breaking the bone of my cheek
against the wind
that bites like a two degree piranha's tooth
is equal parts joy and wonder
at what is become of yet another
partially realized,
still promise laden, summer.