The Long Way Home

Are my hands so cold?
    that you would turn them away like leaves
Like the vines in your path, you turn them away with machetes and pouts
Are my hands so cold that they sting like the winter?

For they are not nearly so beautiful.

My hands were not the winter when tonight began
Not when we climbed in the backseat of a Volkswagon
    not on the way at least
My hands have never been the winter
    for you have always held them in yours

And winter is not nearly so beautiful as your hands and mine
Nor so bright as lapis lazuli sitting by garnet
Nor so clean as a pair of silver bands

And winter is not so cruel.

My hands were not winter when we took the long way home
Not with the failing radio playing skip-beat soundtracks to our love
Not with the failing A/C begging the windows to open

Back then, we were not so beautiful as winter