Bubbling broth
and baking bread—
windows fogged
by winter’s breath.
My mum sports
a splotched turtleneck,
the white knit pollocked
by summer red—
that hue we pluck
from our garden
when heirlooms droop
claret and abundant.
She pours our soup
with a heavy hand
and butters our bread
with a flourish.
I wish for the snow
to keep falling
this fast, frantic,
and thick.
I wish for the school
to keep calling
because the streets
are ceaselessly slick.
I wish for an endless supply
of days just like this-
where the world,
with all its glacial weight,
can be easily dismissed.
Where the hours stretch
lazy and languid as
a house cat’s limbs.
But I know too well
too soon, our bowls
will be scraped clean,
my mum will scrub
her turtleneck, the
snow will melt and we
will have to leave
the warm embrace
of our slow reality.
Then she
will bundle us up
by the mudroom door,
her smile and eyes so sure
that we’re as ready as
we’ll ever be
to take the world
by storm.
pm poetry 