Melting the Ice

An icy chill is not unheard of in mid December, especially in the valleys of New England.
It starts with a snowy dusting, falling from the sky in tiny flakes, graceful and delicate.
It plops to the ground as water, but freezes on contact as the thermostat reads 30 degrees.
The sleeting ice blankets the world, creeps into the crevices of cars, holding to the roof.

It is your breath that glistens onto the window, your arms that defrost the wipers,
shake snow from the heavy branches, slide it off the housetops, hold me steady
as I slip and slide as if on ice skates down the driveway, through the frozen grass.
Your kiss that fogs the wet underneath the ice, making it all disappear, returning warmth.