Long silky fingers wrapped in winter’s charm
drip cold reality on melted hearts.
The reach of a thousand interlocked digits
ensnares the thoughts of man.

Trapped without the warmth of the sun,
succumbed by embedded thoughts
I sit with patience.
For within this frozen picture there is peace,
power, and purpose.
I do not struggle against the sway nor panic
as frozen tentacles probe my weaknesses.
An elastic dance, ensconced in elegant dignity
warms my fear.
Within these laced together dealers of death
and life, there is perfect order.
A feminine prowess; sleek, cold as ice, 
yet exhilarating and hotly yearned for by men
holds me fast.
Far too many times, I want to run through
with reckless abandon these fingers that bring so
much joy to more than just my world.
Far too many times, I watch others cut down
the purpose for which you were made.
There is power in your interlocked world.
Each finger reaching out toward the next until
the perfectness of your weave is exposed.
I am blessed to watch you naked except for truth
sway in the breeze touching only those who reach out.
Not that I am so perfect to deserve such, yet I fear not
the touch of your ice nor am afraid to join the dance of
your fingers.

Rb 2-09-09