This Cold,
This Cold
Begins to seep into my bones.
How slowly it creeps, from my fingertips, my toes,
Continuing its corrupt journey,
Again, it has discovered the road map to my soul.
A fire burns there
Yet it has no glowing coals.
You see, that flame, it burns too low.
It was lit but a short while ago.
I fear it shall not save me from
This Cold,
This Cold.
***
Mara Zilkenat is a poet and caregiver.
