(for Beth, whose hands are cold right now)
These mittens are so you:
(wishes)
among the crimson X’s (passion)
on your memories and hopes,
both heather-pink.
It’s what we do with hands
(the pantograph of mind and soul)
that writes the records--
not how, not where, not when
and not with whom.
Especially not why.
So let some age of ice begin.
Let a blizzard twist
your fingers into grotesque screws.
Cuffs are thick where
blood runs close to wind at wrist,
and winter never lasts.
Mitts pull off,
fingers unfurl in the sun
(a little nipped perhaps
yet still yours all the same)
ready to finish the patterns
you’d begun.