A biting cold winter
won't disguise the glory
of the tiny, slender hands
that bathe and restore
and with no charge, revive.
 
Let the ice freeze upon
what flesh that lies exposed
but warmly send a torch
against the chill
with each humble ministration.
 
Even ice transparent walls
rising gray and mountainous
may not even crush
each small generosity
from an angel of the snows.
 
Thank these tireless souls
who don't hide in our world
against our modern mistress -
death - who love simply
and pray we do the same.