Midwinter

Tart scent of tangerines,
Scorched, wet wool,
Fresh cut greens
And shortbread baking

Hands parched, and winter rough
Bright cold face
Stamp and puff
Bones stiff and aching

We pass these sun-starved days
Inward turned
To quiet ways
Of warmth and making

The earth is fallow now
Shrouded, still
Snow burdened bough
But not yet breaking

We count the cold dark days
With hand work
And sugar glaze
Until spring's waking

We bring the sunshine in
boxed, sweet sun
Juice on the chin
Gold for the taking

Tart Scent of tangerines,
Scorched wet wool
fresh cut greens
And shortbread baking