Christmas

Fog presses her face against the windows peering in
The smell of fresh cinnamon rolls and bacon drew her there
Colored lights reflect their blinking on ribbons and wrapping
Presents look best still wrapped in the house's warmth this morning
She peeks in through the kitchen window
The smell of fresh coffee; the sounds of laughter.
My face presses against the inside of the window
She stares back -- us two locked until I utter
"Please let there be snow"
But the fog just smiles and traces her steps back
Toward the hills, leaving cloudless blue skies.

12/26/05
-- Josh