Wintery days

A door stands quiet, out of sight, 
Its edges lined with silver light. 
It hums a tune both soft and low, 
Of secret lands the brave may know. 

I am from coffee beans,  

from bitter brews and cracked porcelain mugs.  

I am from the steamed soy eggs,  

the scent that clings to mornings  

like an old, Chinese dwelling.

In Amherst's shade, where whispers grow,  
You stitched the seams of all we know,  
A bee's soft hum, a slant of light,  
Became the fabric of your night.