Cold Hands

On this long winter’s night,
The cold instills fright
On all small creatures hid from sight;

The barren earth,
And the cobblestones on the earth,
As hard and cold as granite.

The trunks of trees pale gray, wearing masks of death,
Hold up naked branches, supplicant fingers, outstretched,
Against a sky that says nothing, beyond grasp, beyond breath.

And the cold descends upon everything,
Reaching up, gripping legs like fingers of the dead,
The unremembered, beyond comfort, beyond breath.

As I hurry on, icy breath lost to the sky,
My gloved fingers clutch the chest, press my coat tight.
The other huddled passersby, silent, scurry on,
Minds shut against the indifference of the night.

All are intent on the hearths and fires
In solid homes where the circles of light
Caress their faces, their tired smiles.
But they don’t think; no one thinks,
Their minds shrink from sight.

Outside the icy sky, expectant, stares down upon me, pressing,
Cold probing, trying to find that place in the mind,
Where thoughts lay breathing,
Brave though quiet, dreaming:

All the small creatures lie in their holes, dark and warm.
But what of the women and men without home or fire?
Where do they go? Where do they hide in a world so dire?
My God, what if it’s me with no home in the world?
What if it’s me that the world forgets?
Who will I see with an outstretched hand?

Alone I stand and stare at the night.
The cruelty of winter makes no noise, hid from sight.
And though the warm fire of my home still awaits me,
Long will I feel the cold, hard touch of a world
That one day may forsake me.