A poem from April

THE WATER IS ALWAYS COLD

It’s like washing my hands in the winter

this grief of mine.

I turn on the faucet marked hot

and the water is always cold.

It’s always the same.

Wait patiently for the warmth

to take away the cold pain;

the water stays cold,

sometimes even gets colder.

I fill my hands with foam,

rub them briskly,

sing happy birthday to myself,

rinse in the clear, cold water,

long for the warmth.

In what seems like forever winter

I turn on the faucet,

the one with the red H,

and it’s always cold.

John A. Bayerl, April 28, 2011

It's cold tonight and there's snow in the forecast. It seemed like a good day to post again this poem that I wrote in April.  Then, I was coming out of winter, now I'm heading back.  

It seems like it is always cold, Dear, the warmth you added simply by being in the room with me is what I miss most.