You come home on this day
and I taste the moist
of this afternoon’s snow, dying
in your hands
I won’t ask you if the cold
pressed your throat
till you breathed out
the ghosts you hid
Because I know:
you grew scales on your shoulder blades
but winter still nested
its crystals, cradling in your eyebrows
Even so, there are carols
in the shimmer between
your lashes

You are the most beautiful
when you sing