It's cold outside.
I pick a day from the past
choose a few moments from it
and make myself a fire.
Rummaging among words
scattered in my mind
I make your flesh my pen
and paper your bone.
It's then I love to warm
and wake up a poem.
My fingers become nervous
as words begin to touch.
And there in them,
hidden somewhere, crying in the mind
I find a lonely feeling left behind.
I touch it for a good long time.
Silently as we share the poem
feel its throb and rhyme
memories shore up to greet the tide.
I love how it then becomes warm inside.
