Jan 142011

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.