| A Beacon I can still taste snow after years on this arid desert. On a sleepless night all that was youth visits and though faces and names have gone, I remember laughter from that time before. Once again, I run through the drifts, legging heavy with clogged snow; fingers numb from cold; soaked mittens dangling free. And then Mother calls. Sledded the day long into the fading, crisp twilight, I can still picture my home with lights reflected on mounded snow... a beacon to lead me in. The door opens and warm air fogs my glasses... life-saving heat a return to the womb. Boots drip, forming a puddle; pungent, wet wool is whisked away. Hot chocolate against frozen fingers does have a comfort all it's own. And I can still feel the consuming relief as I melted into home. |