Tile #2

in winters,
swiftly, before it's known
it gets dark
the cold creeps in,
windows to the world
are shut and latched
and it's quieter.
nightfall,
orange quilts and socks,
mothballs
smelling perennially of winter to me,
carrots
in soups I do not like
peppered and hot.

silence
in the dead of the nights,
the littlest of things carried so far,
cell phone vibrations
and smiles,
tinny whines of earphones,
and chilled fingers
warmed over lemony mugs
taking in the vapor,

if I open a pane
of the shut windows
the cold air numbs out the smells.
late winter, though
smells of newer life to come
and of hopeful soil