ive always written on this night

the house, my home smelled of sauteing shallots from midday 
and wine, cooking
and ideas inspired
my toes froze in my socks up and down the stairs to fetch ingredients
and it came together somehow as it does
cabbage pockets and wild rice delicata
pie and soup and winter greens spicy


and no drama, no appetizers 
life stories and intentions
and dishes washed as we go


the compost buckets filling all our waste
and the oven gas on high
swinging creaking in and out
in and out as the time creaks


and the smells linger in the kitchen 
and we tour and we circle and we hold hands
and we gratitude


and we fill our plates as high as we think they can bleed
with everything tender and fresh
and cooked by you, by me, from my hands to my your plate


no tins


and we sit on the floor and we speak of books
and intuition
and what we think of the days
and the snow


and we eat pie because we cant not
and we play
and have no problem needing to go to bed
and there isnt much to clean


and there are no hospitals
nor tables
and it is the greatest ever.