I stand naked

against the midnight fingers of December.

They should be frigid,

but instead are uncaracteristically balmy,

practicing their spring song across my waiting flesh.

Like a keyboard aching to spill music, sensing creation

I emerge slightly out of tune.

leaving the indoor  warmth of winter.

Letting the night touch the black and white of me,

the flat and sharp of me with its moonless creeping....

and something springs and something sings.

What is it about the keys that just lie waiting

for the hand of creation to slip against the slender ivory thought;

they birth the fingers seed

slightly out of tune

but singing their practice song  for Spring across my flesh.