by Maralee Gerke
In January, the wind blows against
quivering willows, and
the sky fills with lazy twirls of snow.
We sleep alone together
our beds pushed close
mine billowing with blankets
yours naked but for a single thin coverlet
that warms your skin.
We each shelter in our chosen space.
In January, we become famished squirrels.
Our eyes and hands gather what they can
to fill the larder.
Our plan to keep all we can
for a midwinter nosh.
The season deepens around us
becoming an exercise in intimate survival.