Prospect, Pennsylvania, 1985, 8:00 PM

by Nathan Miller
Photos by Henry Dean

Henry Dean for Fools Magazine

Winters were cold
and vengeful, and lingered
like icicles along
our slanted porch roof.
At night, I climbed tall stairs
to a landing
then three steps more
to a bed that towered
above my head,
and I took a running leap
diving into the crispness
of my covers, starched
sheets that smelled of Downy
and cracked like pond ice;
I pulled my legs up tight
beside me, turned my feet
against themselves for warmth,
and waited for my puff quilt to
fill with the bit of heat my body held
pushed my face into down-
filled pillows and filled my
chest with their winter gale.

Snow fell outside my window
piling on the sill and panes,
crazing near wood muntins,
turning a quiet forest to
clouded obscurance.
Tonight my breath wanders
into endless treelines of sleep.