My fingers are cold.

It's been a long time since

solace has found me in the woods

wandering with palms turned up

turning brown dead leaves crunch 

leaving my countenance soft

leaving bread-crumbs of prayers

scattered on the forest floor for future spring-time flowers.

My fingers are warm.

It's been a long time since 

solace has found me

over a steaming pot 

of family tradition

welcoming vows with palms turned down

ancestral spirits living in steam.