This poem spun out of a quote by my four year old. However, these words have a slightly different premise than his original musing.
The moon breaks in the dark morning. Blue
black sky drips thick along side streets, snow
packed and slick, a plowed hem gathering
us along icy corners, mounds, and stitch.
Inside we stir among the dry walls
with careful words and warm tempers.
Winter mornings draw stories on seals
and windows; color in sharp corners
full of white and wind. The cold buries
its breath inside us like an awkward
draft, a sharp tenor leaving a bruise,
a glistening fissure rattling glass.