The frost that coats our throats.

We broke each other, glass fracturing
until our ankles were bleeding from the
need to step forward and change
the reflection, warm what we cannot
yet touch in the bitter cold where
icicles hang like nooses from
playgrounds and nursing homes.

We lost each other when lullabies
surrendered to darkness and my limbs
locked up, and your hands could not
write of the heat we once imitated
underneath old pine trees still whistling
from Christmas hymns and bulbs.

No one loves January anymore, not
with the danger of ice and closed highways
but we are not endangered. We will
not freeze under canopies of rime or
die in the patterns of fog that isolate
the misty mountains we once tested.

We are the angels of winter. And how
I used to think we were two seasons at war,
but you and I are too fearful of losing
ourselves in a blind moment of confusion.

Come to me at night, at sunset, whenever
you doubt that this winter will provide for us.

So when you grace the patio, I will be
on the rocking chair, waiting for a soul
to soothe me while the rest of the world
shivers in silence
and we, learn to sing.

-
Written 12/29/14 @ 12 PM

Listened to Angus & Julia stone album while writing this.