Cold

The sorrow of the world does not crush, does not stream in torrents over the fortress of the mind. The sorrow of the world steals in like a winter draft between wooden panels, whispers through mahogany walls and clear glass panes. It trickles in, drop by drop, eddies in pools of sunlight until the sunlight is light no longer, but reflections of solemn blue. The sorrow of the world fills a room slowly, steeps the warm heart in November chill, then all at once the soul shivers and thinks, “The world is so very cold.” So very cold, so very cold; warm tears flow onto faces of stone; why are we weeping? The air hollows, the air kisses. Stinging kisses of frost on tracks of tears waiting to dry. The sorrow comes like a child asking for shelter, for warmth, and as we come to take her in our arms the cold of her skin shocks us. How very, very cold. We draw threadbare thoughts of happiness across our trembling forms, but how feeble the flame of joy, how pale the hue of memory. We draw that insufficient quilt over the child of sorrow, rocking, rocking, rocking her to fitful sleep.