Home & Hearth

Words lie weary on winter’s tongue,
clouds starving themselves
through the night. They taste
only snow, stars, darkness,
and dreams—daylight’s
sweetness is sparse on the solstice.
Still, below, smiles shine as snow
kisses eyelashes and graces cheeks,
while early evenings call
for the warmth of fire
and family, sugar and spice. What dreams
there are, they are of wintry lights
and cold-earned sights.
And the rest? The dreams that creep
like frostbitten air
through the window-cracks
of one’s drifting mind? Those sleep
like the snow falls:
deep and soundless, swiftly

Rebecca Ruvinksy
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