And This Will Be a Sign

A poem.

And This Will Be a Sign To wake in this small room, where all night long
 the steady furnace clicked and hummed soft warnings
 to wolfish winds. To rise from quilted refuge,
 don flannel robe and fur-lined slippers, pad
 to chilly kitchen, brew the coffee, pour
 the cream. To hold a cup that brims with comfort
 and – dare you say it? – hope. As skeptics must,
 you think this peace can't last, but how you wonder:
 An old frame house. Thin walls and drafty sashes.
 A Mason jar of holly twigs, a bauble
 hanging here and there. Three presents wrapped
 and waiting.
         Spare.
                 Enough.
                         For even now
 your loved ones come this way, on frosty roads
 in dazzling sun, their faces bright and open.
  – Kory Wells