In the winter of the soul,
The surface freezes over
With a quick, slick and thick
Amazing glaze;
Rendering the loving traction
Needed to move forward
Without becoming
Vertical and sore
A vision captured only
Under the warm covers
Of dreamed images,
Fears and reality.
Too little heat
Yields only sleet.
Morning chills dampened down
By flowing air
Pushed through ducts into spaces
Along the floors
Where the feet
Remain always too far
From the faces.
Warming the toes
But never adequately
Reaching the nose.
Even to the body,
In the cold it is clear
That even the flow of warmth
Remains predictably
Unfair.
Modulating our own heat
Can be sometimes too burning,
And sometimes
Comfortingly sweet.