There is a cold we cannot shake–
caught in the air, imprisoned
in the wood of the bedroom floor–
It spreads its iron chains
till it freezes our lungs.
Our feet lose all their feeling.
There is a cold we cannot shake
even after we come inside
shedding frozen air like a coat.
It settles in our chests,
freezes our lips when we cough.
We are the frozen people,
caught with a cold that lingers
even in the heat of summer.
Our toes and tongue ache for warm
freedom, long evaporated.
There is still warmth–
lingering in a loaf of bread,
woven between the glass of wine
and conversation over dinner.
The ice remains to our core,
warmed for a passing moment,
but aching for a great thaw,
for the warmth of blankets and stoves,
the thawing of lips and feet–
longing for the coming of a flame.
Part of the Book Seasons of Thought
Other things to read
- Jazz Quartet on Christmas EveA poem from Seasons of Thought by D.S. Chapman