by Marty Silverthrone
The coldest night of the year
the heat pump double pumps,
hucklebucks across the veil of snow.
Before the morning news,
the orange sun in the pines
melts icicles into cellophane drops.
We have loved each other
long enough we no longer need
words to speak the comfort of quilts,
handstitched by nearly blind Grandmothers.
We curl into each other as if our bones
were heating coils; we sleep
ready to face any storm.