Pouring cold

This isn’t the weather for light or for love

This is the dampening march of

Winter

Once there was a little fire

Under a roof

In my youth

—It kept me from freezing!

But now the roof has been stripped away and my bones are chilled

By the pouring cold

The rains have soaked my days and quenched every night

My soul is drenched

There was a hissing

Of lonely embers, poorly spent

They cried out

But

Now… ?

There is silence

That fire was never meant to be permanent

Still— I thought it would last longer than this!

There were

Gray puffs of steam when my fire failed

—not great but meager—

Feathers curled and disappeared into thin air

Soft, warm ashes

Were all splashed with rain

Not ashes to ashes anymore

Just dust to acrid mud

I sift my fingers through these remains

My coals are dark

Their light is no more

My last fire is spent

I cannot light another

Because my matches are wet, their sulfur heads suffer and bleed

Against wet striking paper, they are useless

And the kindling is all soaked through,

Soggy

Like my hopes

Now,

If an impossible spark ever comes my way

I will shelter it between my palms

I will press my bare flesh around that searing hope

There is no ready fuel, on which the spark might bloom

But I will treasure the pain of

Cauterization

This microscopic fire pressed between the pads of my own hands

A bright flash of hurt

Will be some brief relief

From the numbing frost

From the gloom and from the cold that has sunk beneath my skin

Ah!

I will glory in the burn

Thankful to be reminded, even for a picasecond

How wonderful it once felt to be warm