Cold Fire

I trace his calloused
palms, fatigued and bruised
from handling scorching
 
roof panels summer
mornings. Cracks
and dry lines lead
 
me to his hardened
fingertips that I soothe
with strokes. Alone,
 
the spaces between
his fingers lose feeling.
November. Wrinkled
 
like skin, leaves dance
high with winds
on the lake front
 
that stir the smell
of hot chocolate spilled 
on our coats. Circulation
 
is lost in the midst
of the moonlight. Slowly,
I lock each of my gaps
 
soft and tender
from daycare baby
lotion with his and make
cold fire.