A lady asks me
if I am warm enough.

Do I need a scarf, gloves,
new boots -- higher, deeper?
Some hot baked bread?

Am I content,
she shows concern, real care,
here in this air,
this cold air all alone?

Am I truly comfortable outside?
She gestures to the door.
Even another hand, she presses?
Would that help? And then she offers hers.

An extra blanket for your legs, perhaps,
she continues? Or two?
Better yet -- don't you think?

Winter is impossible alone,
don't you agree?
I feel her breath, and start to
dream of hot baked bread.

Winter not spring
is the time for it --
for warmth combined,
for two, she says.

Then she asks again,
so tenderly, so close,
It is December.
Aren't you cold?