Hypothermia
i bend my arms foetal against the cold,
old and crippled,
i am earthquakes
and osteoporosis.
i am rickety mountains
trembling under gravid,
granite peaks
i grow in shadow
though my bones are soft,
even young legs are made of dirt:
shiver while you still can.
Oscar Towe has been writing seriously (and shying away from his real name) for a year or so. Personal, introspective, never growing up poetry. Most of it appears at crowdecidedtotrywords.wordpress.com