Thursday, April 24, 2008

Winter Hands: A Poem About The Tragedy of Limbs Made Icy-Cold by Poor Circulation

This is arguably the greatest poem ever writ on the subject of poor circulation, and the toll it takes on two lovers in the conjugal nest. I think the greatest aspect of the poem is the way in which the meter plays against the rhyme, both internally and the other way. Also, the emotion is profound.

Winter Hands
A Poem By Ricky Sprague

Your poor circulation
Stops carnal relation;
The pain always lingers
From icy cold fingers.

The wine has spilled, and you have killed
My heart has stilled, for you have chilled
Our manse.

It is hardly a treat
To be touched by your feet,
In the conjugal bed;
It’s the touch of the dead.

Your hands of ice do not entice
Take my advice: A warming device
Up render.

Dejected, blood fickle,
It slows to a trickle.
Even in weather warm,
Your touch is winter storm.

I have to scold your limbs so bold
Don’t paw!
Two hands enfold while I catch cold

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