Out in the Cold

A steaming kettle screams from the stove,

Red with the glow of heat; boiling water runs

Down the burning metal; the water streak burns.

The surrounding kitchen fills with morning cold,

All except this small hollow, alive and hot.

Lift, and carry it away with cool and careful hands;

Carry to the table, a clean cloth between your hands

And the scalding bronze. Quietly, the steam drifts off the stove.

A mug waits to be filled to the throat with liquid hot;

Milk poured from the plastic jug, down the steaming surface color runs;

A little heart enclosed in the drink, separate and cold.

With a swallow the mug touches lips and the mouth burns.

A slight touch may rouse the skin to a red burn,

This, the danger in eager and unpracticed hands.

The first grace is followed by a ghost of cold,

Then the scrape ignites beneath the skin as a stove.

Beneath the tap, chilly morning water runs;

This hurt flashes in and out of pain and touch; cold and hot.

Outside the kitchen, past the morning, the hot

Sun leaves its mark on skin as it burns

The leaves to withering gold and teary dew runs. 

Nature holds within herself her own stove;

Just as quick a brush from quick and eager hands,

Can leave the marks that linger in a numbing cold.

Winter opens the cellar door that keeps the cold;

A freeze that whispers its own through hot 

Climates that rage in the flame of a stove.

Yet even comfort in the cold leaves burns

As pink and terse as naked winter hands;

Under that ice a hot river runs.

Away from this feeling of heat, my heart runs,

Out into the air to gather in the cold.

Hidden away in pockets the warmth finds my hands

And as cruel as hate I force them away from this hot

Space; feeling for the numbness after burn.

I can no longer trust the spark of a kitchen stove.

Tears rise from the kettle hot,

The fire catches and rushes beneath the burning stove;

I listen to the kettle scream walk out to the cold.