My mother always caressed my hands,
and I was always warmer than her.
It was hard for me to understand,
but warm hands are what most people prefer.
Fast Forward awhile--
things have changed.
After plenty of winters,
It seems that the circumstances have been rearranged.
I grab for her hands
whenever mine feel too cold.
These days I find it very often
that I must be consoled.
All the nerves in my fingertips
struggle against the frozen ache.
Strength fades, it's the eclipse.
I take one
last desperate lunge
just before I break.
Four fingers on top of mine
after a day in the snow.
They exude heat into the numb;
the prickly sensation comes.
I can’t let go.