COLD

The cold grabs me like the lingering breath
      Of the salt marsh.
           Tumbles in my hair.
Tugs and pulls like a playful child.
     The air, I want to rip and tear into it.
     To maybe open my eyes to what you see.

What does your head say,
   What does it tell you when you look at me?

I feel as if I'm going to burst like an over-
Ripe fruit.  Blossoming into existence.
                    Then the sun goes behind
A cloud.
And I remember where I stand.
         And then I'm back on the weary frost-lined land,
And I'm without you.

---Claire E. Lane
psmart.uk@packardbell.org