ON COCOONING

{flourless chocolate cake with cream in need of shaking and last summer's black raspberry jam // mittens, thumbless since last spring, Gus says it could be a "style", though they have since been given thumbs // cream, shaken // at the sink // pants in progress, funny- I worried they would be too big // rolling candles for dinner, a friend}

Snow is coming down at a proper slant right now through curving power lines, through the crooked outstretched arms of the old pines that stand guard out front. I'm here, inside, pitting the wood stove and humidifier against one another, surprised by it all. Did I know this snow was coming?

What I'd like, I think, is to spin myself a cocoon this winter. The walls will be cream and glittery gold, and smell faintly of warmed beeswax. Gillian Welch will sing oh little red bird.. and everything loved is there, safe and sure. I think in that cocoon this woman shaped raw nerve that I am will curl up and fall fast asleep, contented by relief.

The snow's now falling in dizzying lines across the living room windows; the baby wheezily snores in the corner, her cheeks two perfect apples perched upon her heaving chest.