every time my phone dings that chime I set,

our patterend steps have been
evenly paced
but sometimes i miss
a few, just so our hands won’t
graze
— a metronome
back and forth.

though I’d still steal
a glance from it: soft
fingers on keys, light wrist
on the right beat,
slender
palms fit
in my sweater sleeve.

wondering, how
quickly it can
thaw the frost in mine;
and before my boiling belly
boil over  
surrendering the
mistletoe nose;

how many are missing the same warmth I have yet to hold.

why do i feel caged
                                   —by the same fences, that was
               meant to make me safe.

snowflakes burn on the cheeks
filtering the clad of trees
with grey nostalgia underneath,

Mother said, "let's make
a scarf with those wings"
the commodity out of necessity

for the weather only permits
threads of white, to rest
as supine angel ghosts

remain like chalk pictures
of suns and dreams yet to be
on the street which colors fade

for she walks, with
a spool of feathers on her neck
wondering why,

she couldn't fly like everybody else.

Our efforts remain,
In landfills – incinerate,
Try reaching the sun.