I would make peppermint cocoa for two
on the stovetop
and we would sit side by side on my red loveseat,
our backs leaning against the arms and our feet
meeting somewhere in between.
Either your presence would perk me up,
or I would hang a cheered expression on my face
like the fresh hand towel in the bathroom.
If I could coax you into it, you would tell me about
what winter was like when you were in third grade.
I've been thinking about third grade a lot lately.
You might pause at the sight of new flakes floating
outside the window and we would both say,
This January has been so strange.
Banks of snow lining the street for a whole month now
when most winters it scarcely lingers long enough to run
the sled up the hill to the park.
I might confess that I'm working too much
for a season I had allocated for rest,
and you would believe me when I say that
I don't know what else to do
but keep making things.
I don't know any other way out of my bed,
which threatens to close me into its cozy comforter cave
And let's face it:
my optimism won't last that long untended.
I pray for other kinds of rest now--
that like all these falling flakes
each cup of cocoa and quiet conversation
and every long gaze out the window
will accumulate into something that will last.
That they will line my long, thin, upward-reaching places
and pile into a covering that sends the deep places