Cold Snap And A Cheese Board



This cold is made of sharp-shiny teeth, dainty-pointy, gripped to one’s extremities.
Thicker socks required.
Toes and soles are tenderised.
A hungry cold.
Night gapes like a gullet.
Some night perhaps when the wild of me wakes enveloped in the beauty of that consuming ache, then bare feet will run through snow, over sheer ice, then, a throat, a naked throat, a body dressed only in skin and wonder, can be offered willing to those teeth: but it is not that night yet.
A thick knit of comfort pulls around: woollen socks, a glass of rum, the Rayburn churning hot water in a flimsy tank, a cheese board, two kinds of chutney (homemade) and one sweet pickle (shop bought, a shameful favourite.)
Without hunger, satiation means little.
Without comfort, adventure lacks contrast.




Comments

Dixie@dcrelief said…
And without woolen socks I wouldn't appreciate the cold...maybe not.
Love your writing, and the blue polish!
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you Dixie- think my nails were the same colour underneath!
Suze said…
witchy woman

(and I mean that in the best possible way)

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