Salty

The cold has no hold here.
For five years longer than planned we endure it.
But it seems like the warm only knows how to increase
expanding until it hangs on every shoulder.
Pushing in the bounderies of each individual.
It sits, like a crushing bully on the lungs and teases us to say:
"Why is breathing such a struggle with you this day?"
Not my choice, by the stars, to see this end
but then
who makes the choice each day to face this flat and salted plain?