Mittens

Hot vibrant flames roar in the smoke of an empty fireplace. 

It warms the ice chipped fingertips wrapped around a perfect pair of mittens. 

     

In the palms, knitted thread binds the spaces. 

 

Patterns. 

 

Cheetah. Floral print. Colors. Stripes. Lines. 

 

Speaking. 

 

Crumpled old newspaper in the waste bin, coffee ring still present. 

Where has that morning gone? 

 

Memories take up time. Replaying over and over in my head. 

I have built up a magnificent castle on this cracked foundation. Why? 

 

My toes curl from the cold marble steps I climb. When will I learn to wear my socks? 

Because though I may slip and slide it’s better than this bitter cold that sneaks into my bloodstream like poisson. 

 

It’s the venom of a snake's tooth that has yet to bite. Waiting. 

 

Feet swinging from the park bench. 

Childhood ‘what if’’s  fill my mind... 

         When. Who. Then. If. 

The words left unspoken share a world of wonder in the cracks of that invisible foundation

 Surface. 

The passing of two strangers on the crowded city streets. 

Time tears down memories

like a wrecking ball to a bridge

or a pail of water to a fire. 

 

And yes, I know, I am pushing on a door that reads PULL in big black letters, but I can’t ignore the fact that, though this idea may be abstract it could've been… if, then, I...No!

 

Why am I pulling at the tight thread of these stitches? 

Why am I looking for beauty in ashes? 

 

I think, I just need a new pair of mittens.