You Remind Me of Butter

You’re hard when you’re cold,
inside of the steel box.
It’s there you keep your shape.
If I were to open your cage,
take you out
where there is warmth
and fresh air
I know you would melt
right in my hand.
You’d run down the length
of my arm,
liquid gold spreading like fire,
a greasy, waxy paste.
Nothing I could hold.
Nothing I could shape.
But see that’s the beauty of
when you let go.
You’re not formed.