Some people can’t be reached no matter what you say,
Who probably wouldn’t care to feel your touch anyway,
And for all those who need, in some way, to be reached,
Our fingers might wave but they rarely ever meet.
In a dark windy heart there’s cracked glass in the rain,
Palms still untouched can be cut all the same.
Quieting the air with a gesture, I find
It helps, when you reach, to shield your hands with mine.
Those stinging cold moments with warmth underneath
Pour lakes into places overridden with dead leaves,
An Autumn-stained blush from a spring-tinted gaze
Briefly turn skies that were black back to grey.