Words align on the edges of our scarves

fragile crystals, sharp, faceted,

coated in ice, each corner distinct,

a march of glass fragments,

broken when spoken.

Night frosts the woolen threads.

Breath freezes into blame

that can’t swallow back.

Snow crust crunches.

Scarves bunch beneath pursed lips.

Words too cold to be lost

Preserved in unforgettable permafrost.