may ice in cold weather
as different as doorknobs, some will fit into your hand smoothly, natural. while others are to be grasped at an odd angle, but you will persistently hold. you will still turn them. in bed at night, you wonder at the things it took to open them, an antiquated key, a secret spot to push in, or pull back. still, your efforts will be enjoyed. you will both enjoy. that new precise rounded metal, patient below your palm; he, rusted and squeaking, the feel of a comforting, enveloping hand. laying in bed at night, you will relish the feeling of something so solid, as the wood boards below you that bear your weight. wanting nothing more then to be a bridge, stretching across thick nervous rivers and safely depositing travlers on opposite banks. i've lived my life for travelers. a bed and breakfast heart, waving loyally, waiting for the next nomad.