The air floods beneath the small, meditative clips of snub nosed scissors. I fall asleep with white, sharp corners dusting my socks. Paper snow inside our windows, three frames full. The wind laps louder than rain, finds the cracks, and we shut out the noise. While light, thick as glue, makes the indoors shine - sticking to me like your voice, raspy and true. The door ajar spills in morning light with a fine burst of snow. Our feet pound the black frozen soil, laced with distant hints of august. Decayed long beans, yellow gnarled tomato skins, parsley trapped by torn burlap, four petite heads of cabbage. They are long-legged with curled leaves lapping up the cold. The cornflower barrels over our head, and the house rattles with treasures. Baking bread, chestnuts, steam rising from cups. Bare legs find radiant heat blowing like sunshine from our black vents. Speaking. Giving. Hibernation is setting in. My eyes feel alive, yet heavy. Winter, sing me your song.
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