In the hush of winter’s breath so cold, Where fingers tremble, stories unfold. A touch of frost, a stress, a strain, Blood vessels whisper, retreat in vain.
White as snow, the skin turns pale, A ghostly hue in this quiet tale. Then blue, the chill seeps deep inside, Numbness follows where warmth used to hide.
In red, a flush, as life returns, But in the soul, a lesson burns. For in these hands and toes, we see, The fragile dance of what could be.
Primary whispers, soft, less fierce, A silent storm that’s calm, not pierced. But secondary’s cry is strong and loud, With shadows cast by a darker cloud.
The triggers come with winter’s grasp, Or when emotions tighten their clasp. A cigarette’s kiss, a drug’s embrace, Each leaves its mark, each leaves a trace.
Yet hope remains, in warmth and care, In gloves, in coats, in whispered prayer. For in the fight against the freeze, We find our strength, we find our peace.
So hold these hands, so tender, so true, In every shade—white, red, and blue. For Raynaud’s may chill, may slow, may numb, But in the heart, warmth always hums.
