Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #162
My Hands Are Cold
by Belinda Roddie
My hands are cold despite the summer heat,
and I cannot find someone to warm them,
to kiss them when they tremble, to rub them
dry when a humid rain has soaked them through.
My fingers usually are numb, so I
can't feel much when I hold things or brush the
surfaces of things. When I touched your face
for the first time, I thought at last I knew
what warmth was like. I thought that color would
flood into my palms, reddening my skin
and making me as sanguine as a child,
hot and giggly and sweltering in June.
Alas, you left me even colder still.
Not even scorchers take away the chill.
by Belinda Roddie
My hands are cold despite the summer heat,
and I cannot find someone to warm them,
to kiss them when they tremble, to rub them
dry when a humid rain has soaked them through.
My fingers usually are numb, so I
can't feel much when I hold things or brush the
surfaces of things. When I touched your face
for the first time, I thought at last I knew
what warmth was like. I thought that color would
flood into my palms, reddening my skin
and making me as sanguine as a child,
hot and giggly and sweltering in June.
Alas, you left me even colder still.
Not even scorchers take away the chill.
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