In this cold we are the flames, the furnace and the fuel - that is what the phoenix is.
Our breath rises with a jocund vibe to greet the wintry cloud, to become a tiny part of warming up the cold.
Between the physical cold of the wintry day and the icy Money-Nexus culture, it's challenging to keep my pilot light on, to keep my core warm.
The cold has brought the world of our street to an icy beauty, a white sparkle as fine as any crystal.
The cold moves in only to meet the warmth of my blood, my defence against such ice. I feel it wash over my skin, again and again, only to be met by the beat of my heart, again and again. The truth is, as hard as it is, that so long as I keep moving I'll win. The ones who stop are the ones who freeze; the victors reach the safety of home because one foot always moves in front of the other in defiance to the wind, in a rage against the winter blasts, at ease with the volcano that breathes under this snowy mountain top.
Tomorrow the promise of spring will blossom as flowers do, yet today the wind blows cold, the last serenade winter's song. Upon the grass there is snow, much like sprinkled sugar over cake. The frigid air has a way of keeping us in the moment, wicking away body heat faster than it is replaced. It's one of those days when normal clothes aren't enough, when they feel thinner than they are. Breaths rise in puffs, arms hug each body tightly and there is a briskness to movements that will melt with the snow. Come tomorrow faces will reflect the warmth of the sun in their smiles; today they show resilience and a will to prevail.
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