Cold air meets soft skin,
Hands that dig themselves deep under snow,
Hands that throw pebbles onto the ground.
White winds sweep past windows,
Where warm beds lie still and breathing is deep.
The tips of noses are red,
Heads covered with fleece-lined fabric,
And gloves that served more purpose than traditional warmth.
Soft skin turns rigid, hard,
And cracks.
Warm water from the unburied pipes sting in retaliation,
Delicate hands turn close to stone,
Stiffness found in the sanctuary
Softness found in the cold.
But the beach air just up the steps,
In flannel sheets and dreaming long,
Hold these hands with the brightest form of child-like oblivion,
Grinning up at their parents, asking when the next snow day will come.
