Huddled amid December
snowflakes, breathe—wisps of steam
shorn from our lips. We stand
like two life-fused snowmen
barred from the warmed rooms of a sanctuary
that would certainly thaw us
entirely. Mother looks on
through our window squares
the way a day moon glares down
from an atmosphere of glass. She’s
peeled off her hole-poked night cloak
simply to watch us stiffen. Her
pair of snow molded children
she’d leave for spring to melt
if father never returned.
Shawn Nacona Stroud lives in Columbus Ohio with his two dogs where he works as a cook while hard at work on his MBA. On his free time he enjoys mixing words together and cooking up a poem or two. His work has appeared in The Loch Raven Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and more recently as a winner on the IBPC.