Cold hands
Wait for yours
Fingers like lost icicles
Waiting for the thaw

It withers

near a bare
tree,

under skies
filled with
gray.

It withers

with tired petals
amid dullness, and

rain.

I see it wither

here.

I see what

remains.

Poor haggard

thing

with no place to
go.

I see it wither here

without
ever seeing
it

grow.

Touch me with your heart
And be seen

Touch me with your body
And be felt

Touch me with an idea;
Your mind -- and be known.

Wasting your breath

There are some things

That will only change

With age