Epiphanies in several snowbound days require
So little but the will to see ourselves in bed
With breakfast in the morning after all is done and said,
And as we turn these pages, coffee inspires
Rising and falling nuance, the fondest anticipation—bacon,
Mounds of it, and six bright sunspots, yolks slow-fried
In butter wantonly abused in the black belly of the skillet deny
Nothing to the toast and for heaven’s sake on
Sundry Thursdays in the months, and Mondays,
Tuesdays, Wednesdays of the coming year
I’ll think on these bright moments with culinary fear
For both of us. Your smile, my laughter on our whitest days
Wrenched and strained, steeped from both our schedules thrown upon the floor
We closet in our winter’s gladness, dim the lights and bar the door.

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