Digits Frigid

When the chill reaches the fingers,
my hands become hands 
handed awareness of their hands.

What chill is this? What fills my mist
with grist that can only be milled
if my grip can come to grips?

Ask another question of the cold.
Its responsibility slows down
as slow knows slow.

Recursion means that green
browns out the sounds 
that otherwise vibrate our ground.

What glass is this? What simple verbs
ask my simple mind to curb those wheels,
to learn better the moving translucence 

walking our
                        cold border
                                               lands.