You and the World Understand Memory Differently

The chill starts in the forearms

For no obvious reason,

And then it spreads to the hands.

This is how it always is.

It starts, and you button up

Your sleeves, but what can you do

About your fingers? You need

Them free to finish your tasks,

Which will never be finished

So long as you have fingers.

Shiver. Mrs. White’s Nothing

Sounds, coincidentally,

No doubt, out from the shuffled

Playlist, a year to the day

It played while bonfires of brush

Guttered orange and smoky

In aspens in early snow.

Tonight’s sunset is crystal

And nothing like as moody.

Your fingers are getting cold.

Exactly a year ago.