New Month, New Form

MY HANDS GROW COLD

My hands grow cold on winter eves.
The brightening sun my heart deceives.
This cold, this cold surrounds me still.
My feeble warmth can’t fight the chill.
Lost am I, like autumn’s leaves.

Will winter keep what she receives,
While summer’s child hides and grieves?
I hold what winter aims to kill.
My hands grow cold.

There are no stays, no late reprieves.
Her actions prove what she believes.
Hungry, she demands her fill,
This winter goddess cruel. Until
New love winter’s spell unweaves,
My hands grow cold.

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