Crocus in January

The streets are straight and narrow,
Overflowing with downy snow.
The houses sit nestled in close to each other,
Coated in their thick blankets of alabaster flakes.
The neighborhood is doused in a heavy darkness,
And the stars seem brighter, sharper
Like the dry air that pricks my throat
And crackles in my lungs.

The sheets of white draped across the houses and streets
Suck up every bit of sound like a vacuum.
The crunch of snow beneath my dragging feet
Is immediately extinguished, the echos lost.
The burnt orange glow from the street lamps
Illuminate the large tufts that spiral down
And catch themselves in my hair and kiss my cheeks
With icy lips.

I feel my breath condense between my mouth and scarf,
Droplets of water dampening the hair
Pressed against my chapped lips.
My breath rises above me and curls about my head
Like a crown. I lift my head to see the plumes of smoke puffing
Out of the chimneys like pipes smoked by old men
In Hemingway novels. The smell of cedar smoke
Leaves a tang in the back of my throat
And a pleasant tickle in my nose.

I ascend the porch steps, crawling out of the shadows
And into the light of the single light bulb that hangs
Beneath the forget-me-not blue arch of the ceiling.
I take in the soft, buttery yellow of the walls,
The cornflower of the door,
The warm, all encompassing light of the kitchen beyond.
I turn the handle of the door and listen to its familiar creak.
I push myself into the gaping maw of the old Victorian
And breathe in the smell I've long since acclimatized to,
A smell that is me and a smell that is home.