when the wet snow splashes the fog from my breath off the window pane
erasing where I wrote my name backwards with my finger
and everything is sick and pale with cold
and I sit and trace the patterns of the frost on the glass
I will peer out from inside
my feet tucked under me
and smell that smell that I have come to associate with the old rusty heater
warm and old
my little brother,
not yet one,
tries to stand up
my fathers sturdy arms around him
just in case
snow muffles the traffic outside
wet snow, gray snow,
so unlike the Christmas cards
perched above the fire place
kept only out of politeness
snow that makes me long for strawberries
grown in my garden
my very own garden, shaped like a pizza
with a border of rocks my mother and I stole from the railroad tracks
and a different plant growing in each slice
oregano, poppies, peppermint, lettuce, violets
no obvious theme or connection
and sunflower houses
summer sunlight toying with the shadows
of the morning glory roof
for the feeling of sand in my wet swimsuit
and for lemon grass tea
in my blue mug with a snowman on it
that used to make me long
for winter