A Odd Kind of Prayer

Ice cold
bourbon.

Steamy, hot
bath.

Snow outside
falls
like a deep sleep.

The wind blows.
Snow drifts
piling high against the doorway.

A strange silence
drapes the world outside

as the bourbon
settles
like fire,
dampened against the night.

Your bed is empty.
The springs whisper as you climb
under the ancient quilt

alone
with your odd kind of prayer,
a lingering question mark,

a plea for mornings clear light
here in the midst
of winter’s silent storm.

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The picture was taken last winter, just up the road from the woman I love, in Rupert, Vermont.

Charlotte