my hands are frozen
on a pitch tar birch tree
the angled snow glass
is taking a look at me.
from up there
the sun nestles down.
from down here
the landscape daubs in shades of green,
the air rings like glockenspiel feathers,
i hear whispers of my aunt saying grace
and melodies that fade from me;
but all i see is the road.
my hands wanted to die lonely
though they needed to be held
till the pink shown through like
i stretched out my hand
to the perimeter
close enough to see the warning sign
and even though my hands never knew
i sure did, and i walked through.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry