Cold Fingers

Cold metastasizes on my skin then
moves to my core: I cannot keep warm.
I shiver, rubbing hands stroking arms bedeviled.
Winter rays, gray and low, numb my spirit.
Frost's glistening blanket engulfs me in a shade
through which light creeps diffuse, unfocused.
This is just the long beginning of the season,
a time between times, a time of quiet dread
and dead white color blinding me.
I don't believe the winter promise, the fallow
lie of spring's reward for having made it through
to warmer days.