For Dawn

On cold days I remember
something I never saw, but know:

wriggling, wiggling left hand fingers
threading—pale—through a tiny crack
in the window.
The gracious fly
in the ointment.
The perfect amount of space
to fit a wrist through
and flap
in the dawn air,

motioning the unthinking hope
that someone, anyone might be there—
able to see and call out for help.

The soft creaking of a joint
trying in its slow wildness
to catch our attention.

It was for me.
It was for her.
It was for you.