Chilled to the Bone

Surrounded by radiant warmed air Giving off steam like wispy hair I can almost hear my solid, frozen bones Sizzle as I thaw in the light of the sun On this snowy winter morn I am observably colder than The December silence Holding me hostage A hoary frost patch starts to form On an exposed portion of skin Steadily growing Crystalizing fabric and flesh alike Gloves and coat offer no protection, though They’re meant to swaddle and warm me Hardening my thin pink shell Until I resemble nothing more than A raspberry sourpatch kid Pulled from the car cushions And gleefully shattered by a Bored child on the cement

K.B. Silver

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