Icing

Slip into his fleece-lined flannel, too big,

the red scarf you chevron stitched for him

*

last winter.

*

December mornings have barely arrived

beyond the hearth-steamed cabin windows

*

while his chest heaves with whimpering

puffs of sleep breath. You woke up first.

*

One year’s passed

*

but the oven still warms cinnamon rolls

and you set the timer on your phone.

*

Mere minutes to collect the firewood

he chopped last week, expecting

*

the first snow. The harlequin cat

curls between his legs as you open

*

the door,

*

step onto the porch in his steel-toed boots.

The falling wet seeps between your buttons

*

and inside your collar. The first footsteps

are yours this year. An armful of wood,

*

return.

*

He’s risen, already started the coffee,

beaming at you with a bowl of icing.