Cold

In the foggy weather When the visibility is limited to Less than or equal to ten yards It is high time to lay on the Spruced up garden and look at Your hands; palms are squeezed As lemons in cold and fate line Vanishes suddenly at the base of The little finger The cold has gripped the teeth And the upper row tries to push The lower one down into the gums; The grasses hold the drops of dew in Their tips and rotate them like tiny balls; There is a susurration in the hedge The lizard has changed place seeking Warmth in the elusive sunlight