If This Is Dying I’m Not Scared

I saw him (myself) emerge
from the river burdened
with the weight of water and saw it
freeze with each delirious, deleterious step not into ice
but snow piling atop the crown. The arms triangulated into eaves
connected at the temples, collecting more dust therefore sparing the windows.

A little bit
of skepticism [or a lot] can be healthy
depending on who you talk to. The only doctor (?) around for miles wafted us towards
a red door in the face
of a mountain like directing a windstorm
away from trailer parks
with this insurance: You’re in
good hands.

I never saw through
the door but it’s enough to know you and I won’t continue paying
for overpriced professional
opinions
because:

How could they call us frigid who weep
three times in a day at words and pictures
and touches from which home emerges and lives?