New Year

The wind blows in
early January’s cold
soft, quiet, grey
snowflakes for both
mystery and monotony.

I am holding onto
last night’s moment
where fireworks
lit up our sky
watched them
through reflections
in your eyes
I saw a different beauty

I know
by the warmth
of your measured breath,
and the way our home melts
the runaway snowflakes,
how our heavy comforter
holds the smell
of yesterday’s meals
I am sustained

in my winter.