Tuesday, November 3, 2009


The cold does not bite,
It only gnaws
Your exposed skin,
Making its presence known.

I remember
Building an Igloo with Hal.
Maggie at her pottery wheel,
Molding the uncertain clay
To her merciful desire.

My mother,
Sits in the glowing parlor.
She peers out the frosty window
And sees Hal and me.
A smile breaks on her face.
To some, perhaps unforseen.
But I saw it coming.

At last,
She and I were home.
Home in Vermont.