Winter Prisoners
Bitter-to-the-bone
cold grasped my toes
and held on.
Hot soaks, two pairs
of socks, and a space heater
won a few battles,
not the war.
In time
the cold owned my toes
and held them
prisoner,
casualties of prolonged
sub-zero temps.
It became a winter
of incarceration,
the only hope
a spring parole.