16 degrees…

16 degrees

breath turns to fog,

laughing back at me.

~

Socks and layers first.

Then the jacket

that fights back.

Zippers argue

with my sore hands.

~

Bray Bray watches me

like he already knows

this part works out.

~

I lift him.

The cold tries

to make a point.

Then he smiles—

wide, sudden,

like he flipped a switch

somewhere in my chest.

~

The morning backs off.

My hands remember

why they’re steady.

Winter loses its edge.

~

16 degrees,

but I’m warm now.

~

That’s all from me — Chris B.