Cold wind, once
The cold wind, once, waited in my own breath for me, with the slow patient awaiting of a wildflower for the sun to run its day; it once waited in my breath to heave the whisper ghost-heave that was vital breath to me, the coarse lungeing of my upper body, the air pulse and flow of my dappled breast; it once seethed in me, the chill, sprite wind, breathed its seed in me, ghost warmth-seed of my respiration. Once, and I gasp breath til it again.
