I Call to the Thrush

I breathe into my icy fingers
And try to rub the numb away
They’re brittle and weak, and cold sometimes lingers
Skin splits and cracks like it’s made of clay

Awake, awake
It’s time to wake
A new season has come at last
My fingers shiver
The pen tip would quiver
So I type for my own sake

There lives a well of mist in my heart
That might make Sanderson blush
But it is my own, wisdom to impart
Concealing the nest of a thrush

I call to the thrush and look toward the sun
Praying the frost melts to dew
It is a new day, a new season begun
I hope my fingers remember the things they once knew





Photo by Ainur Khakimov on Unsplash