Wanting one song
to slip off the old,
I find a small mint:
lamplight on snow,
the fir outside my window caught
in that ambler bloom, tug
of twilight wanting
the sun’s arctic shine.
Inside, heat hums through these bones,
the lull of George Winston’s “December”
while Christmas still flashes its joy.
I set the table, ribboned cloth
of red and gold, candles to carry
this sacred solitude,
take down the wine glass,
the matching bowl and plate,
welcome a serenade of tears as I dish
out soup, salad, breathe the scent
of chili and lime, smoked paprika,
earthy cumin, the body
flush with gratitude.