A Recipe for Snowfall: A Christmas Poem

Take one evening,
the longest of the year,
and let it settle like flour
on the sill of the world.

Add a pinch of cinnamon—
the kind your grandmother used,
the kind that smells like being small
and safe and wanted.

Stir in the sound of a kettle,
the low murmur of a radio
playing carols nobody remembers
the second verse of.

Fold in the light of one streetlamp,
haloed and haloing,
and the hush that comes
when the first flakes fall.

Let It Rest

Do not rush the rising.
Snow is a patient thing.
It knows the difference
between silence and stillness,
between waiting and being left.

While it rests,
write a letter you will not send.
Write it in pencil,
so the words can be forgiven.
Sign it with your whole name,
the one only your mother uses,
the one that sounds like home
when spoken aloud.

Then open the door.
Step out into the white.
Let the cold take your breath
the way love does—
suddenly, completely,
and without apology.

Serve Warm

This is the recipe:
one night, one lamp,
one memory you thought you'd lost,
and someone—anyone—
to hand it to.

If no one comes,
eat it yourself.
Snow is not a thing
that must be shared to be real.
But if someone does come,
if they knock, if they stand there
with snow in their hair
and something in their hands,

let them in.
Let them in.
Let them in.