My Hands

The frost is settling on the reluctant grass.
I try to speak, but there appears to be a mass.
It’s lodged in my throat.

The pressure from my heart builds.
My left lung with air, fills.
My right lung deflates despairingly down,
Giving its breath to the other, that it
Might force the words now bound.

Just as I am about to speak,
A speck of snow falls in a streak.
I’ve missed my chance to say it all.
The bitter, white snow begins to fall.

The land has frozen over.
My chance to speak is over.
So I will keep silent.

I’ll cover my ears, and hide, between
my hands.