cold creeps in through the shutters
and under the doors, caressing the floors
i walk upon barefoot, half asleep,
wandering uncertainly while i wonder
when this undecided season
will finally make up her mind
and stop playing cat-and-mouse
with the flowers and the frost.
but i have wondered so many things
that i never earned answers to
because i wouldn’t speak the question
that apathy has grown on me
like a vine on an iron cage
and curiosity is the memory
of a mildly contagious disease.
death hangs ’round the edges
of all this beautiful newness,
reminding me i’m responsible.
how many winter snows have
made me regret the curse i chose?
how many times in the night have
i cried because i feel nothing inside?
yet as i watched him die
i couldn’t even cry —
the world was cold
and i felt so old.
so old.
i plucked my folly like a rose
chose my fate and then i found
it wasn’t happy like i thought
but fraught with guile and dim decay.
you say you love me anyway
despite my dirt and disarray —
beneath the skin that’s stitched to sin
you love the heart that is within.
how can that be? i know you see
all the hidden things i’ve done
and the roads i used to run away
from your lovely burning face.
and grace? you say you’ll wash
my feet, my hands, my head —
i should be washing yours instead.
don’t you see what i’ve become?
the little innocent undone.
how can you warm my hand in yours,
you, with your eyes like open doors,
when i was mocking all the time
you fed me bread and gave me wine?
but now i hear your voice at last
triumphant like a trumpet blast:
“my love, for you through death i passed.”
there isn’t any more to ask.
