To Find the Way Home

Cold, little one?
The softly sifting snow describes your breaths
in pallid fogs.
Goosebumps map mountains across your clavicle.
Come closer, shiv'ring one, and I will keep you warm.

The barren trees
reaching ceaselessly for an eternally
ashen expanse
exhale, tremulous, under cumulative cloaks of white.
They will not reach the sky.

Bitter winter waits.
The wicked wisp'ring wind wicks all warmth
from brittle bones.
It eddies across wan skin in icy spirals,
daring to snatch away gasping breath.

Cold, little one?
Come to me, child, and I will hold you, enfold you
against the wind.
Cruel winter waits outside,
but I will keep you warm.