hand of Winter

The icy hand of Winter

points its blasts

in this direction.

Holding fingered water

in suspended animation,

crystal fluid

glazed and shining,

glinting,

in the disguise of sunlight.

There is no escape

from the cold clutching

as we slowly

become rigid in its chill.

Inside, by the fire,

the heart beats reveille,

a call to arms 

for inner warmth,

and the waking throb

of hot ache.