Once a People of Warmth

The world has gone cold

from the frigid wind blowing

from the West.

some of us will wander aimlessly

as a result.

the cold will shake cracks into

our bones and we will

die here among the frost.

We will only know warmth

in our last moments,

through the deja vu coursing red

in our veins before it stops.

Blood from our people

who once had warm places to root

and rain water from the sky to drink,

bodies that knew how to wait,

bodies shook with laughter in a chorus of many

under the noon day sun,

and hands that knew when to turn the soil,

and pull up for harvest,

to sift through the branches for fruit.

hands that never knew snow on their roots,

or winter as hard,

frozen knots in their knuckles.