(Dec.26.2019)
Growing numb in the icy late December,
turning a strawberry sheen and stiffening up,
like a dead body, when left unmoved.
Writing this becomes incredibly harder
with each passing stroke I make.
I bet it's impossible to read this
I go to a bench in a field where I write several poems in my notebook I got recently, so all the ones written there will have the date written above the poem.
My fingers hurt so much when I came back inside, because I can't write with gloves on.
