Mid-Winter’s Eve

To the Lady on the Train, 

I would trudge miles through waist deep snow to be able to sit by a fire with you. We would let the snow fall and the frost paint the window glass. And the smell of the cold and draft that follows me in will be banished by the kindling flame when coaxed to a roar, matched only by the light of your eyes and the warmth of your hands. 

The silver moon shining on the fresh snow look like the world is blanketed in gossamer and the world is hushed and as soft as your skin and glows the way you do. 

And one mid-winter’s night the outside world disappears. The winter winds blow lonely hearts through city streets, but here we are cocooned in the warm and glow of firelight.  Just to be, no more, no less. Just to be.

The Man in the Station

The