keep_your_heart_where_you_want_it_to_be ovenbird My hands are always cold, hinting at the permafrost that lies just below the heat of all my dark tilled blood. I won’t be able to dig my own grave until the spring thaw, which means there’s time yet to sit by the fire and let woodsmoke blacken my lungs. When the kettle boils I’ll make tea and drink it hot enough to dissolve the lump of wax and ash lodged in my throat. The hummingbirds overwinter now, trusting their lives to the promise of sugar water served warm on ice locked mornings. Last year they secured their solstice nest to a clump of Christmas lights, kept warm by the tiniest yellow glow. The babies never saw the spring, making an unsatisfying snack for raccoons who plucked them like jelly beans from their bed of moss and spiderwebs. I put honey in my tea, sip nectar from a chipped mug. And I wonder, for the umpteenth time, if I should have gone home when my body still remembered the way. 251015 what's it to you? who go blather from