Rounding our front pillar, sharp winter evening, transfixed.
Naked bulb orange bright, framing the pokey garage converted front room against a star sparkly black.
Inside the boy, stone still, book in hand, leaning diagonally across his winter canvas,
Head an inquisitive tilt, appearing to drink the words.
All winter muffled, Advent echoes adsorbed, breath condenses in gasps.
If by some hatchet means a lucky soul should be blinded, they will count their blessings for his turquoise deep pools.
He still kisses me on my lips.