“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.” ~ Christina Rossetti
It’s in my very bones this coldness
the veins of me are chilled,
and I sit as close to the candle as I can
staring at its glowing pulse.
Pinocchio burnt his own feet off longing to be real
longing to be warm to his own touch.
But who will touch me now?
Is there one who will find me wandering,
guide me to the hearth,
lend me a blanket and allow me to shed the internal icicles my mind has clothed me in?
Or will I continue this madness dance, this solitary minuet,
alone with the shades.
Once my spirit took wing suddenly
soared briefly toward the sun
but collided like a bird against a window
and fell back stunned, scraped and aching…
I scratch at the forming scars until they bleed thinking to reach and release this
this frigid specter that stitches me up in garments of lamentation and near death frost.
But I remain both here and not here
a reflection of myself in a pale cool pool.
One who wanders searching out the light and gazing with hungry eyes at chimney smoke curling like a beckoning finger.
Now praying that even this small candle could break the spell
unbind this coldness
and bring me into fire
if that’s what it takes to melt this iron heart
this coffin of ice.
To crack the very bones and offer up my marrow as a melting comforter,
a coating of wax to keep the drafts from reaching in,
and dragging me back.
To sit captive,
shivering, the frost slowly spreading in a graceless pirouette
into my very bones.