"arctic breath"

I know penguins don't live anywhere near the arctic.  I don't care.  Written in song form.

"arctic breath"

a cold wave: God's hushed voice
dances into places previously allocated
for reason;
an arctic breath: crispy beard etched
with snow, you know where the penguins go
don't you, oh Good King Winceslas?

"should've had a part in the war, but
the war is for younger men," you said
"i've loved a lot a long long time,
and it's time i be getting to dying."

a shiver at the mention of God's voice
is back in it's overly familiar spot, he loves
his tiny corpse;
a riverine tundra holds its arctic breath, and chokes
back to where, you know, the snow can't
get at the penguins.