Winter in my Hands

My hands were meant for my body tonight

It is winter,
     (but not of my discontent);
     actual winter
     with snowflakes and fireplaces.

And I am wondering how to make the cold more
     (approachable)
on this manipulative night.

Secured in blankets? Dozing?
          relishing the fiery smoke of the Islay
          that sits with distinction on my tongue?
Or perhaps sharing bed space with lovers:
          a mockery of intimacy? I am chilled
by this deduction –

I am an island, ancient, with borders,
keeping them all out. And my eulogy is a welcoming plaque:
     his home was his tomb.

I wish to have an aerial view of this maze.
As this, in turn, would make the drunken dogs
and screaming babies
seem less bothersome.
For they too are riled by the maddening noises
     unheard by the rest of us; for demons and angels
     play on the senses of those who cannot speak.

Yes, tonight will be a travel night
through words and images
with the warmth of my own hands,
and memories untarnished by memory.

1/2-3/2014

msf