Grateful

When I slip
beneath the sheets, spent
as a sodden tea bag,
I am grateful.
In my mind it snows.

Noiseless snow,
the kind that artists paint
for Christmas cards
and poets call down –
perfect for angels,
or a hoof print
if I were a deer.

Silent, still
as a sleeping newborn
in my mind

when I awake to dawn
illuminating
the underbellies of leaves,
my muscles rested.
I lie, awed
by the quiet strength of one
infantile morning
and the heat creeps
like a secret
through the radiator.

And I am grateful.
In my mind it snows.