Through my heart’s prism

The thick white snow looks like your soft caress
And gives each object gently rounded edges.
But its icy feel freezes my hands so much,
The opposite of your warming, tender touch.

The sun heats my cheeks like your glance
When it falls on me as if by chance
But the hardened winter palish glint
Reminds me not at all of your eyes’ tint.

And so it is no matter where I look
Whether outside at a tree or car
Or inside at a table or a book,
I think of you and how you are.

This is the cosmos through my heart’s prism:
Every thing is you – or it isn’t.