Inside/Outside

Inside the house, all
you can see are the streams of rain
down the windows. Outside,
even a minute exposes you to
the chill splash of truth as the singular drops
filter through your dark hair
and trickle down your scalp,
soaking the collar at your neckline.
Shivering, you intuit the needle of ice
that still lives like a seed
at the heart of each drop—it feels
that cold.

Would you wish yourself innocent
of ice, shielded? This is a poem
you could never have written, a frost
you would never have let yourself feel.

~Luci Shaw