Nest and Feather

for the ones with whom I find comfort

My hands smell like onions

most nights. Yours, like the inside

of rubber gloves and graphite. Mine,

like rain and young weeds. Yours, like

wool and warm grass. You carry winter’s slap

on your cheeks into a spring blush. I run outside

when I hear thunder. We still huddle in our nest

of feathers and flannel and thank the nights for

each other, for the warmth we can offer one another.

For nights that still whisper frost before morning mist,

for the slow, sleep-slogged reach for a body that fits mine.