A snowless drift to Winter’s desert heart,
Which withers hands to dormant elm. Dangers
Congeal under milky ice. Their start
Find fear in the open mouths of strangers.
Cold fever breaks; regain the Sun’s warm white,
A light that shades the memories of dark,
A lotus fed that sets the past aright,
And heals the hands, returning their spark.
My fingers flex, now fat and pink, pumping
Gold-white ink within, dark green ink without.
Ink filaments root through wrinkles, writing
A memoir of my unrecorded doubt.
Rewrite the tale in words open and free,
Though the past returns with the turn of a key.