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Fingers; small tiny fingers.
Child like, soft, frail,
warm....

They run over paper.
white, crisp, new,
cold....

Thinking thoughts over,
fingers turned with the paper.
Smoothing it out, cherishing it almost.
Then a 'rip was heard.

The paper got smaller,
slowly-- in an instant.
Fingers let the ripped peice fly,
off with the wind.
Sending a message.

Fingers; rough long fingers.
Worn, dirty, strong,
shivering against the wind.

Old paper; browing paper.
Rough, crumpled, worthless,
warm in a pocket.

Smiling softly, almost bitterly
those fingers roughed over the old paper.
'Rip', came once more.
Small peices of the same ugly brown,
floating, floating onto the ground.

A pair of loaffers step on them.
Gone with a second.
FInally comming out of hiding
wind picks up the ugly brown and turn them softly;
the message flys off once more,
off after the now vained cold man.