Outside,
a haze of mist pins the cold to the ground.
Moving through it gathers the moisture on my brow
and it drips,
so slowly that it gathers the heat and salt from my skin
and it feels familiar,
as familiar as my own tears.
So familiar is it
that it's almost a comfort
and I do not wipe them from my cheeks.
The heavy air muffles sounds,
transporting me back to my childhood
when broken ears muddled every note,
and I am lulled,
my walk sways,
my coat warms,
and the slow shuffle through grass
in my worn, leather boots,
becomes as comforting as the gentle undulation
of a rocking chair
or a mother's womb.
A healthy musk wafts upwards when my boots cut through the hay on the floor of the coop,
and the content clucking of the hens encourages me,
my hands rooting through the wood shavings,
and there they are,
smooth and shaped to perfection,
the rich brown that makes my stomach grumble in anticipation.
I place my treasures in the folds of my skirts,
and turn to leave,
sighing as I acquiesce to a return to a harsher realm,
far beyond my dear, grey faery world,
with lichen-covered tree bark,
and wordless creatures for company.