Something simple, something clear.
Anticipation of cold weather, skaters
circling on a pond. The snow is void
of distance: what seems far away is all
too close. A man comes home to his family,
tired of his work. If there’s a fire
in the fireplace, so much the better.
A hot drink with its steam for his lips.
So what if it’s not enough.
Think of the absence
of thought: snowdrifts over footprints,
a candle lit in sunlight. What’s difficult,
re-trace: the ice ballet, the figure eight.
Hands over the fire, the smell of cinders
on our clothes. The lines in the hand
are complex but change, smooth themselves out.
And if in our palms we see change that seems
unjust, the hand of someone else in ours
may mask that fear, distract us for a time
at least. What is not enough? What we have and what
we want, the need to know the ache that complicates.
Palm Reading in Winter
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