On nights, when its cold, with invisible ice

picking at the door shivering, I wish I could

hold your hand, run my fingertips over

the contours of your joints; You say

its strange to be complimented for your

hands, but I think the opposite: It's

beautiful, your hands are wonderful;

Hands are what give us a hold on the world

around us, allows us to hang onto things,

bars, handles, lover's arms, life.

Everything fresh and new, clean, washed

away by late spring rains, swirling from

the sky, snowflakes melted before leaving

the clouds; I wave my fingers before my face

and compare the ridges of my joints

to yours, holding the warmth in my palm,

a fluttering in my chest, butterflies

trapped in a cage of sticks; they

might snap lest I be careful how I

feel, what I feel, and how I say it.