Frozen
I lay myself out
on the window sill
basking in the sun's golden glow
I am still
and dip my hand
in the sun's yellow rays
hoping to catch a piece of warmth.
Yet the window is ice
and my heart is cold
my fingers are blue
and wrinkled and old.
My numb digits tingle,
with the urge to break free
and feel more than just a chill.
I press my palms up against the glass
and recall a memory
that occurred long in past
of a man and woman sitting beside
a pink cherry tree
with all their time to bide.
A lover's pair meet
in gentle passion
it seems
but upon closer look one sees tears
on her cheeks
and could swear that the flowers on
the cherry tree die
and the air has turned to cold.
Holding on tight she grasps
his hand
yet he pulls and slips
through her fingers like sand:
the tiny grains one can never
contain
he leaves her all alone.
The woman is torn
that is plain to see
she stands frozen still
under that pink cherry tree
with her heart in her hands
she feels it start to crack
and as it breaks she turns
her back.
Then the flowers are gone,
the wind starts to blow
and as the snow falls
her tears freely flow
like a brook down her face
until they, like her heart,
finally, solidly, freeze and stop.
I remember that day
every last single second
can't ever forget
for my memory beckons.
It calls my name and
my broken heart
and were not for ice
I would fall apart.
Perhaps it would be
better to heat
the heart that is frozen
it might offer release.
Yet I remain a hard sculpture
of ice crystal clear
and my heart remains terribly broken
I fear.
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