My bare feet are cold against the kitchen floor.
I chose soft clothes today,
as if my body is a child
in need of comfort.
I’ve held on tight – the kettle handle
smooth beneath my palm –
me clinging on, like it’s
a lifeline linking me
to planet Earth
my feet are bare against the cold kitchen floor
I closed my hands around the cup –
heat almost pain,
pain almost heat –
but nothing warms me –
I trailed my fingers
over the wooden table,
letting the faint, fine ridges
of the grain be felt
letting the texture soothe me
my cold feet bare against the kitchen floor
I chose soft clothes today,
to hold me like a mother’s arms,
cradling me.
I’m hosting at dVerse tonight, and we’re exploring the sense of touch. Come and join in – it’s the poets’ pub, and it’s alway good to spend time there.