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.