For indrawn breath at the chill
Beyond the covers,
For feet finding floor.
For the dusty furnace rumble
And the warm shush through the vents.
For windowpanes cloudy, condensed
Where the first rays paint
Our coziness within, frost without.
For pen and ink tree etchings
Frozen against the lightening gallery of sky.
For the brown and bitter grace of coffee,
For butter melting into toasted bread,
For crumb-dusted fingertips licked clean.
For candle wax left sculpted
By last night’s flames.
For my love’s hands,
Knotting his tie, tying up shoes.
For lunch boxes banging against boy knees
In a dash into the cold, into the day.
For being the one left waving,
Slippered, on the doorstep.
For the swept span of a house made quiet