Hungry hands and empty skin

warmth in my fingertips in spite — 

or because? — of the bitter cold. 

But I can never quite envision that which I long for

nor can I put a name to it.

Lying just outside metal gates

I reach between bars and recall

youthful days spent chasing sunlight 

on gray winter afternoons.

First snow falls softly on my shoulders

as the sound of something like the dawn chorus of songbirds

reverberates all around me. 

Constellations dance across the black paint 

of closed eyelids.

I hold still, heart caught in throat, 

but the images never stay.

Like water slipping through cupped hands, 

I blink, and they slowly fade away.