I’m finishing the dishes
as I gaze out the window
and see the gentle swaying
of our tall aspen trees.
It’s going to be cold tonight,
cold you can feel down deep.
Not the dull ache from bad sleep,
but sharp and immediate.
Sharp like the sting in the fingers
the man on the street must feel,
as he holds up his sign bare-handed,
hoping to pause a passerby.
Those cold stinging fingers
may become dull ache,
the first sign of true penetration
and a sleep that will shiver to the end.
It’s going to be that kind of cold,
so, I’ll be sure to pause at the closet
and grab an extra warm blanket
to place over my feet tonight.
This poem was posted for the previous week’s poetry prompt, Disturbing – Not Disturbed.