Reid@YWP

The thick night cloaks everything and the snow follows suit

a delicate dance, welcome

after two years of rainy Decembers. 

My room is cold even though

the heat is blasting, so I sit

this isn't the first snow - it isn't

the one we spent at the bus stop together, sharing 

hand warmers and wishes for the bus to come,

which, eventually, it did

melting the frosty road beneath it

7:53 My mother has creases under her eyes I’ve forgotten I contributed to, laugh lines around her lips I didn’t realize were from jokes I’d made.

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.