reminds of snow when life was lived there.
those cold winds forcing the collar tight

the bears in the lightly dusted Boreal
preparing the last of their supplies before
the ground freezes over until spring

children begging the sky for a storm
to crown the water tower hill for sledding
ahead of mothers calling them home

the romantic, for a white Christmas.
the young woman, to blanket herself
with her lover by an open flame.

for crisp star filled nights where the only
clouds are of spoken words whispered
in the knowledge of being heard. yes. yes.

I miss the north on days like these.
I miss home.