The fireplace hums and exhales as its molten embers dance and cheer and snap. As if beatniks after a spoken word reciting. It is December now and winter has found itself on my widow panes and into my breath as I whisper clouds of stories into the muffled quiet of snow. Falling like I have for you, each flake lands and layers with the previous one before. Follow my footprints as I push each boot further home. Condensing this frozen sea with each step, I leave my breath for the trees. The crackled skipping of the Bing Crosby “Christmas” record plays in harmony with the now fire ablaze. The scent of cedar smoke and cinnamon billows from every pore of the house. As I challenge your eyes in a staring contest on the davenport. Drinking spiked eggnog from mugs shaped and flatly painted like Santa’s face, we become without clocks. We are without words. As your simple stretch of teeth wakes my belly of caterpillars from their chrysalis state. Showing your bones, I paint you under my skinny eyes as we fall back beneath the crocheted throw next the warm of the fire. Sinking into rosy cheeks, congruent with our Santa mugs. I dissipate my breathing pattern. I hiccup. I frame your face with the squint of my palms. I shiver. I play dead. Anything to keep this dream from an abrupt awaking. Anything to keep this from the bitter bright of morning. I’ll stoke the flames. I’ll widen the flue. I’ll open my brain to encapsulate you. Good morning.
Joshua Tool – 12/05/2012