Goose feather down &
hot mochas (we gave up chocolate
when we were fourteen, the coffee lends us
sophistication and jittery kneecaps).
Chicken soup in bed,
with crumbs scattered over fabric hills,
nestled in valley caverns where my
thigh marries my torso to become my hip.
And you are frightened in the snow—
but listen, how the wind whistles on
and carries secrets from the fireplace,
tucked away in breezeworn cloud pockets.
The silence after the storm passes:
this is when Spring slinks in,
and our joints will cease to ache.