Tightly bound I hold a cold winter’s wind at my back, a coat once warm now dreary and wet. How warm mistletoe is, how warm the fire breaths, to stall the winds in their endeavors, meshed wishes. The smell of cinnamon rolls fills my nose, the numb cold pinching the last pin from my feet. The twinkle of the white lights that trim our tree, blinking in my eyes newly trimmed that day, a broken bottle of Bordeaux spilt on the floor, wrapped presents filled under needled branches, kindle burning, one bottle, two? I ran, they swam. Red along my hand, frozen dark, smoke soot, I smile, “I’ll run…”
I’m currently experimenting with mystery poems. This was a first attempt that I think works well.