My fingers are numb,
I show them to the sun but the sun cannot help.
The wind whips around them with a mocking laughter,
as if to say didn’t you know the winter sun is a no more than a decoration,
a bauble to make you believe that Winter can be friendly,
it’s just an illusion. Winter is cruel.
My fingers tingle in response.
The wind is being honest and blowing the bitter truth against me.