December 26, 2007
When I slip
beneath the sheets, spent
as a sodden teabag,
I am grateful.
In my mind it snows.

Noiseless snow,
the kind that artists paint
for Christmas cards
and poets call down—
perfect for angels,
or a hoof print
if I were a deer.

Silent, still
as a sleeping newborn
in my mind

when I awake to dawn
the underbellies of leaves,
my muscles rested.
I lay, awed
by the quiet strength of one
infantile morning
and the heat creeps
like a secret
through the radiator.

And I am grateful.
In my mind it snows.

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