She is forever cold
    and resents it,
like the world owes her warmth.

Wrapped in an old, hand-knit throw
    (given her decades earlier by her grammie),
she crowds the fire.

Still she shivers,
    anxious, self-sorrowing, angry.
There is no sun within,

only a battered heart,
    and the unending wearying wind
that numbs like death.

The world owes her warmth,
    but she feels eternally
chilled.

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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