I sit at my writing desk shivering,
The sun is hidden from my view,
The cold grey skies smother me.
The wind, the wretched wind,
takes such a delight in
driving the piercing cold deep into my soul.

And yet here I sit,
my coat hangs within arm’s reach,
and I do not reach.
The heat lay within steps,
and I do not stoke the fire
and still I suffer.

No more,
No more,
will I suffer from this cold.
I reach for my coat
and clothe myself,
I stoke the fire
and warm myself

And still, I shiver
the body warm,
the spirit cold.
I shiver for something never held,
something never felt,
something never wanted
or yearned for.

Yet now I crave, that divine touch,
A gentle touch,
to warm my soul,
with blessed bliss.