Poetry
A Poem
I rub the piece of snow with
My strong thumb and weak index,
Discriminately, like
It was a grain of sand,
Until I realized my fingers glow
With blood, wanting to come out and
Play, mistaken themselves as sunburned.
Patches of dry skin, rosy pastel of cheeks.
A snowflake grid, footprints of snow
Everywhere—the terrain is Robert Frost,
Instead…
