The only bright thing is the quilt
Slung closely around her shoulders,
Surrounding her eyes in paisley knots.
Drifts lean against the windows,
Huddling tight against the panes.
Everything is bleached in the
Sheepish grin of snow.
Even her face,
The face that used to glow for me,
Washed out like the children’s drawings
Left in the sun too long.
She opens her mouth and lets the sorrows drip out,
Quietly trickling to the carpet.
I say nothing and see her eyes glint,
Emotion rising in the tides.

Today we woke up.

Enough.
I will make a *** of tea.
I let her disappear over my shoulder and step out
Like someone walking in water.
Her breath is but a whisper
In the shell of our home,
Soon to be smothered
In the wail of the kettle I place on the stove.
I feel my lip crack as I inhale the dry air,
Tentative bead of blood gathering in the fissure,
Iron laced.
Licking my lips, I taste irony.

The kitchen window is nearly swallowed.
Beyond the cloud of frost is the expanse of our yard,
Laid out like the tale of our love,
Bare under my scrutiny.
Smothered,
Buried,
Lost under the noiseless drifts,
Our garden had once bloomed.
The world fallen under this falling.

Keening rises in the mist of steam,
Curling out of the china teapot behind me.
I tip the languid water into a white mug,
Letting it settle around the teabag like an arthritic cat,
Seeping through the cloth and herbs,
Tearing free the perfumes and
Wafting them about on lazy paws.

I press it to her chill,
Lacing it between her fingers,
Ignoring the seeping
Distress that still carves her face.
In a while we will put on our masquerade,
Venturing through the drifts
To carry the children home on our shoulders.
But not yet.
For now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
Blanched under a gossamer blanket.

I drift away as a specter.
Beyond these windows the
Snow is a white flag waving over everything.
Give in and surrender,
Lay down my arms and admit defeat.

The door looms out of the glare,
Sudden,
Whole.
Hesitate a moment and turn back.

I never go in here, into the playroom.
It is all blocks of color,
Primaries comfortable in their paint.
In the bleach of home,
They hurt the eyes in their folly.
I sink into a small chair.
So this is where the children hide all day.
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
Tucked away from my conscious.
How long since I drawled a story here,
Held a little hand or two,
Conformed to innocence.

A sadness wells and I
Punctuate the blankness,
Letting the waves sweep out my cobwebs.
Let it go.
Try again.
I will shake a laden branch,
Sending a cold shower down on us both.

-Clap your hands-

I clamber back to her,
Resting her wrists in my palms,
Slipping the blanket around us both,
Enveloping possibilities in color.
I search for her and let her seek me out,
Lifting us from the freeze,
Bit by agonizing bit.
Don’t give up.
It’s just the weight of the snow and all its little pieces.