Cuddled beneath flannel sheets
hibernating through bright-moon hush.
Torporing through owl dreams,
sighing, shifting, in our snowbank den of quilts.
Our cubs slumbering in distant ports, gone on
the restless wind
the same wind blew us here,
three decades past.
Six degrees this morning.
burned itself out in dreamless hours.
Must we rise now? Depart the blanket-den
to follow the spiral stairway down down
to spark the first match
I dare not lift the covers and run.