The windows grow small with frost and the moon
Is large above the house. On the baby’s hands
Are red socks, curled above his face.
Far away, a siren or a dog.
In your long hair is a trellis of flowers
Which makes everything in the kitchen brighter.
It defies all sensemaking, the weather so cold
And the south so far away. You try not to draw
Attention to yourself, but how can you help it?
Here, drink some more wine. We have warmed some wine
And though it’s good wine, we put an apple in it.
Here, setting the wine before me. But I don’t want more wine.
I want to ask about the flowers. He wakes up
And his red hands sink deep into your yellow hair.
— Steve Kronen