writing

Hands of Winter

The cold settles in, chilling to the bone.

Finger tips blue and trembling,

Wanting nothing more than to feel

Red hot blood rushing through them

Once more. But the blood holds back.

Nails grow brittle, layers peel away.

Youthfulness fades away. Wrinkled skin

And pronounced joints appear.

Will the warmth of Spring return one day?

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