Avalon Husain

White glare through the windows,

Cold air from the pane hits by skin as I

Approach. With sleepy eyes and wool socks

I slide on hardwoods to quiet morning

Coffee foam and the smell of pine.

Rose seeps into my cheeks and whatever

Isn’t covered by mittens and snow pants,

Still we from yesterday. We venture out

Trudging to the sound of boots on ice,

A story and symphony told by footprints.

We travel through the powdered brush

And brambles where the bare, cold truth

Of leafless winter is smothered in a softening

Of edges. We stare at a spilled-mild sky, a sheet

Of paper, unwritten by rain and stars. Drunk

On icicles, we create our own laughter

In the silence. We honor each flake

And its design as it melts

In our slender fingers.