Wool Socks

There is a rugged softness to him

That cushions

The impact from the frozen ground

And shields my marrow

From the frigid depths

Of a bitter,

Slumbering world,

That lies,

Longing to wake.

All the while he lets my skin

Breathe.

The exhales turn to crystalline fog,

Warmth radiating

From under his vigil.

There is a comfort

In his companionship with my steps

That prevents vesication

And snow’s mastication.

Although I could brave the tundric void

Alone,

I would rather have

My favorite

Wool socks