COLD

So deep within, cold to the bone, to the marrow,
to the microscopic matter of the soul.
Inaccessible, frigidly arctic, too painful to touch.
Occasionally a break in the clouds,
beams of warming light, but only able to reach so far within,
on the surface warm, but inside frozen still.
A momentary promise,
until the sun retreats again,
leaving behind disappointment and deepening grief.

Am I frozen beginning from within, or without?
Can a soul be willed to thaw?

If not, I grit my will, straining for a sunny day,
for touches of warmth:
a phone call from a friend
the nuzzle of a furry head
an expression of empathy
forgiveness of neglect
fleeting glimpses of mercy.

If so, I search, I yearn, I reach
for a spark of inner heat,
one that burns constant and remains,
despite sporadic outside fanning.
Somehow I know this heat I cannot will.
I surrender to faith and know that it is there
somewhere inside and yet beyond the microscopic matter,
an invisible deposit of grace.

I will close my eyes and wrap myself around it,
melt into it, seared and branded.
I accept its warm invitation
to dance in its forever blaze.