Marjorie DeAngelis
Cold bit at fingers
that cutting winter,
chewed them even in
wooly hiding places,
chased them
till they dove for more cover
coat-pocket deep.
And suddenly
it seemed
I had entered a
sheltered cave
sat round a welcoming blaze
safe at last
secure
comforted.
And I found myself
wishing
that even some
of those I seek daily
to love
feel they’re in a
pocket like that
when we
meet
talk
write.
But do they?
