The Day After Christmas

The day after Christmas, the world was thickly white. The snow stood inches sideways on branches, impossible. You came to the bedroom after another night awake in the studio and climbed in bed for a moment, overalls still on, but shoes off. I laid my head on your chest and told you about my dream. It was morning for both of us. We bundled up and I felt like a kid tucking snowpants over boots, ready to venture into the wonderland. The orchard was still, the chickens hesitant to venture outside. Snow sift/fell from the apple trees and you took pictures, me trailing behind while the dog went bounding through the underbrush.

We drove in the white truck to the house I was watching and the cat met us on entrance with her soft yodels. In the backyard hot tub, we talked about free will, psychological priming, and the repetition of lifetimes. You asked my thoughts and my heart turned towards you. The watery sun barely peeked over the sandstone cliff to the south and a flicker flew in from the west. We kissed, our warm bodies floating entwined in the hot water, surrounded by a world of white.

Later, you fell asleep in the giant bed and though I tried to rouse you, you slept on. I curled into you and your tummy filled the curve of my back with every breath.  I tried to get up, but your arms tightened around me and pulled me closer, a silk ribbon on the wind in the claws of a cloud-dragon.