A Hand To Hold

Your eyebrows are drawn tightly together,

Warding the cold from your

Eyelids.

The clouds are pallid with the

Promise of snow.

Your left hand is gloved snugly,

Warm within its woolen embrace.

The other, however,

Lays bare and blue,

Limply at your side.

You threw that glove away

When he promised he would never

Leave.

What use is a glove,

When there is always a hand to hold,

To keep you warm?

But now the spaces between

Your fingers

Are frigid and flecked

With frost.

As I pass, I take off a glove of my own--

You don't look up,

But you sadly slip

It on.

I can withstand the numbness

Better than you may think;

I am more accustomed

To the solitude.

Author's Note

Another wintry addition.

Reviews

[Hello, Goodbye]

another great despondent poem about the dual frigidity of the season and ones soul..