Spring — a poem

The first day of spring
I place my coffee cup
The one once owned
By my Father
In the crook of my thighs
As I curl my legs beneath me
A skinny seat.
Warming the round heels
Of my feet
That people tell me are good
Soles
And all the while
My hands are cold
My nose is cold
My heart is hotter and more molten
Than I’ll ever admit
To
You.