there are mugs piled on top of each other,
cracked and worn, shattered glazing,
like spider-webs spreading over handles
that have been held hundreds of times in
cold hands, fingers wrapped around them
like the snow tenderly hugging the
branches of the trees, and the golden weeds
outside in the brisk air.
the air is frozen and misty,
creating images before our lips
when we exhale; images that dissipate
before our watching eyes, like an illusion
that is never forgotten, but no longer
in sight of our wondering thoughts and dreams.
there is music, words sung,
eyes closed, as if the words are dancing
in front of us, ringing through the open air,
and echoing in the truck cab
as our lips form words
we thought we'd forgotten.
silence, like a aura of mystic beauty
hangs from the branches of evergreens that
reach for the sky, like a winter song
once faded from memory, now rippling
through our minds like gentle streams of
a frozen river; gurgling and whispering
under layers of frosty ice and glistening snow.
fingers pale with the chill of the wind,
cheeks blown as red as cherries, our feet
are encased in slippers while wool sweaters
hug our shoulders, although never as tightly
as we embrace the ones we love. faces
are cheery, transitioning between
laughter and silent dreaming, while
the wind blows the clouds like a wintry mask
over the horizon and the air smells of snow.
curled up in front of the stove,
the warmth washes over us like
the water of a hot spring,
thawing our fingers, and making
our toes tingle as we laugh over
facial expressions and word inflections.
there is a feeling in the atmosphere,
of warmth, that is not only physical,
but mental as well. the closeness
of family, the smiles and laughter,
warm the heart more than any
wood stove ever could.