January Warmth
by Michael Escoubas

Mom bundles
sister and me tight
in at least four layers
before sending us
out to play
on the coldest of cold days
which didn’t seem cold
because the wind lay
sleeping, sun smiling,
sky high and bright
like an artist stands back
satisfied with his canvas.
Our chalet glistens
like a gingerbread house
on display, the white
picket fence shines
as if in white-washed paint—
something out of Mark Twain’s
Huckleberry Finn.
Spruce boughs bend low
shagged in crystalline sugar—
we blend in as January's children
wrapped in fur-lined coats,
galoshes buckled high and tight,
sled-runners greased and slick
ready to whoosh down the hill.


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