I sleep best with that bone ache frigid chill,
the frost coating constant weight,
contrasting the relative warmth of my own body.
Winter is the only time of year I wake completely rested.
I want to take her to my bed,
I want to trace my fingers along her curves,
to weather the storms of her temper,
to feel her breath frozen against my lips.
Jack London,
my husky,
shuffs by the crackle fire,
adjusting his shoulders as I do mine,
keeping the carpal tingle at the fringe.
and maybe it’s a matter of time and scars
but I’ve yet met man or woman,
who had that self-same allure,
who carried it like years–
for all the wounds and winds kicked up.
There’s no sadness in that,
just a crackle fire,
and a dog dozing as I idly scratch between his ears.
