mittens

You move across the earth
like the shadow of a cloud
that never lingers
long enough
to ever stick around.
You give yourself to everyone
like a child to the snow,
and then wonder why the world
has made you
so cold.
You bond yourself to passion
like pears to a branch,
but growing leads to falling
and now you are rotting on the ground.
The bees are feeding greedily
around the softness of your fruit,
but the ants have taken interest here
and soon
you will be marched beneath the ground.
You might expect one or two of us
who remember you well,
to visit you and remind your heart
what once
could make you turn around.
And if I may be this one,
I hope I speak it well—
that you deserve so much more
from the world
that has made you
so cold.