Then, winter comes on
& you can’t make a fist.
Your gearing mashed & torn,
soldered to an eagle’s claw.
All day long you are building
a fire in your hands, rubbing
constantly, feeling coming slowly,
a communiqué from headquarters
out to the war-ravaged front lines.
No reinforcements. No supplies.
No surrender. You dig in, storing
up, delegating as good generals do.
When at last all is made good, you salute
flat-handed & firm, tight to the brow.
A gesture unequivocal. No surrender.