I blindly throw a knit scarf
around my neck,
not even stopping to notice
my season has retired and
left me here in this cave.
I've become too familiar
with watching frost bite
and drafty windows take
the first pinch of chill.
As I button up my coat,
not out of anxiety or guilt,
I freeze on dry ground
bare of ice and snowy piles,
and my head flies skyward
in glory, amazement.
Who is this angel of such
fine threads?
I feel my heart's echo
and its width expanding
over my fallen arteries;
this warmth I cling onto
because I've never sensed
such intimacy in colors.
Ordinary is the opposite
and overlooked is what
buries my feet into
the open sparkler's dream.
The wisp of scarlet
handlessly brushes my chin
and lifts me up as it enters
the very essence of my soul.
