Cold
by Carol Ann Duffy

It felt so cold, the snowball which wept in my hands,

and when I rolled it along in the snow, it grew

till I could sit on it, looking back at the house,

where it was cold when I woke in my room, the windows

blind with ice, my breath undressing itself on the air.

Cold, too, embracing the torso of snow which I lifted up

in my arms to build a snowman, my toes, burning, cold

in my winter boots; my mother’s voice calling me in

from the cold. And her hands were cold from peeling

then dipping potatoes into a bowl, stopping to cup

her daughter’s face, a kiss for both cold cheeks, my cold nose.

But nothing so cold as the February night I opened the door

in the Chapel of Rest where my mother lay, neither young, nor old,

where my lips, returning her kiss to her brow, knew the meaning of cold.