for Tor

Shaking off snow, hanging up the snowshoes, you come to the fire.
Soon we smell the winter berries, small and dark, fetched from the depths of your pockets, and tossed on the stove.

First the static, like an off-tuned radio, fills the room.
Then the sound of the spice market and far-away seas, awaken us to summers yet ahead.

Entwined in the lint and stitching, more seeds remain.
Let us reach now reach down and retrieve these fruits you've so generously shared.

Now its your turn to savor their fire and sweetness. Just as we recall their heat in the gleam of your glance once again.