Sunlight streaks,
through the open window—
curtains that stay closed
when night stalks our home
from all sides—
now thrown wide
to let in every UV ray
we possibly can
before the long,
cold dark descends.
You and I, side by side,
tucked beneath
our thick duvet,
talk for hours
as dark devours
every needle tree
like prey.
Will the dark devour us too,
when January,
with its perpetual gloom,
gnaws at our fingertips,
dulls our souls,
chaps our lips?
A winter death
is brisk—
not quick.
So we prepare
for a season
of frost-ache and sticks.
No, I know
we’ll make it
through the somber stint.
We’ll evade the
blue shade
and skies
of pure flint.
We will be the glow
for each other at dawn—
a time that should
be renamed
in a darkness so long.
If the sun doesn’t rise
up over the land,
but diffuses beneath
stacked stratus strands—
it’s more of a
muted ingress,
the suggestion of day,
unbroken.
Regardless,
we’ll warm one another
with laughter—
a flame that burns hot
in the chest,
and flickers with
each inhale
after that jovial spark
has been lit.
Yes, yes, I know
we’ll make it.
So as the long
cold dark descends,
we worry none,
and cozy close,
as winter drear
impends.
pm poetry 