Please, come in 
from the cold. 
Let me hang your burdens 
by the fireplace and shelve 
your damp mittens on the mantle. 
Snowflakes tumble as you remove 
your scarf. They dissolve
into a small puddle 
that the dog laps at, grateful
for a drink. 

Slip off your sturdiness,
leave the winter boots 
next to the jumble 
of soccer cleats 
and house slippers. 

Yes, the boys are about your age. 
They’re out shoveling. They have no
curfew. Later, they might build an igloo 
and store beer in the solid ice, 
forming their own 
semi-haven. 

Sit on the old armchair, 
its worn leather soft as simile. 
An untuned piano stands 
in the corner, its ivory keys chatter 
like old friends, 
like what you and I might become, 
if you decide to stay here in this land. 
Dark chocolate melts on the stove. 
Have a cup. Swallow the rich night. 

Sleep awhile. Take my bedroom.
Or one of my son’s. They won’t mind. 
They are good, soft boys. 
Their pictures line the walls 
as you walk up the staircase
to the next flat line of floor. 
The hardwood creaks. 
When dawn breaks 

like a stanza, maybe the snow 
will have slowed. You’ll leave 
into the brisk crispness 
and this house will collapse 
with just the wind of a page flip. 
When it begins to snow again, 
perhaps you’ll return to this dark smudge 
in the white. 

Through the window 
where I wait, I’ll wave and welcome you.
There’s something warm here, 
come smell, come taste, come dream.