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.