And This Will Be a Sign To wake in this small room, where all night long
the steady furnace clicked and hummed soft warnings
to wolfish winds. To rise from quilted refuge,
don flannel robe and fur-lined slippers, pad
to chilly kitchen, brew the coffee, pour
the cream. To hold a cup that brims with comfort
and – dare you say it? – hope. As skeptics must,
you think this peace can't last, but how you wonder:
An old frame house. Thin walls and drafty sashes.
A Mason jar of holly twigs, a bauble
hanging here and there. Three presents wrapped
For even now
your loved ones come this way, on frosty roads
in dazzling sun, their faces bright and open.
– Kory Wells