Booted feet set to street

covered in ice, not melted by grit.

A missed spot on which to

slip, to fall, face near dirty

grates steaming from underground

as the cars rush by, exhaust

fumes pungent clouds, mixed with marzipan

– a scent of a childhood long passed –

from the bakery, its heat motherly

invite to go inside and eat; to warm

a belly ravenous from cold.

Picking herself up, she smiles.

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