Two steps into the unforgiving lake
I find my breath is stripped like naked skin
which shivers for the soul of warmth, the sake
of cold November waters found within
the warmth of early autumn in the lee
of winter, just beyond the fading hills,
like fading memories of you and me;
the shock of frigid water only kills
naiveté exposed by ignorance.
The comfort of my writing chair is not
the comfort I expected from this chance
confusion of the cold. It’s warmth I sought.
Again, it seems I’m waiting for the spring
to take away this bitter autumn sting.