December

The winter winds its way about our hearts
And slides itself into our very souls.
Its sedentary chill so slyly darts
Into us that it hides beneath the rolls
Of coiled fat and cannot be expunged.
It therefore does not lie on the outside,
In some external world in which we're plunged
But underneath the skin. We try to hide
From this, and blame it on the world,
But every time we do, we are deceived;
The winter is within us, tightly curled
Within our breasts. If it is so conceived,
The way to warm ourselves is not with fire,
But with the contemplation of desire.