Midnight Fingers of December

I stand naked

against the midnight fingers of December.

They should be frigid,

but instead are uncharacteristically balmy,

practicing their spring song across my waiting flesh.

Like a keyboard aching to spill music, skin senses creation

and I emerge slightly out of tune.

leaving the indoor warmth of winter.

Letting the night touch the black and white of me,

the flat and sharp of me with its moonless creeping....

and something springs and something sings.

What is it about the pores and keys that just lie waiting

for the hand of creation to slip against a slender ivory thought;

where they birth the finger's seed....

slightly out of tune

but singing their practice song for Spring across my flesh.