#Mittens stuck to cold metal

Bulbs so hot they melt the silver snowflakes God took so long to make;
The evergreen tree is damp with warmth and steaming so;
Reminding me of strong peppermint oil and bubble-filled, black molasses
Poured onto the ground,
And frozen like silvery blades;
Now part of the myriad brushing snowdrifts,
Part of the wild rough magic that roams few nights a year.

The smell of ice and peace,
Musty pine sap and hot chocolate,
Cider and spices with a dash of whisper, pushing;
Grinning and a generous splash of joy,
All brush away the dusting of powdered sugar that covers your red, candy-glass heart.

Skillfully, these steaming scents accent the night,
And must artfully dodge the dusty pouring snowflakes as they wander upwards;
Lest one touches, and gives hinder.

Burning with a touch;
These tipped orbs are a distant relative of the bonfire set before my feet,
Though encased in glass, encased in sound, with a most astounding color,
Also;
They smoke with life through the cold.

We laugh, and cry;
Splashing our souls and hot chocolate onto the packed, squeaky, brown snow that carries the treads of our boots.
We drink eggnog because it opens us up;
Thus, we Wizards and young Mages of the art cast stories to the sniffling sky as watery spells without regents.

Laughing along to the jokes and stories and general sound,
My soul does battle with my eyelids, and the flash that ensues shames the Star;
The darkness lulls,
As the night does do that--
Despite the complimentary cold,
Despite promises of gingerbread.

These few bright streetlights stand watch,
Reflecting the snow as it falls down
Like London's searchlights.

Metal surfaces beg for relief in the form of sticking damp mittens.

Softly blowing, does the wind
Toss flakes and Angels 'round these routes of light;
A dance we of Earth can't follow.

And the memories break through the pine needles,
And our argyle sweaters start to collect shiny bits of melting snow and marshmallow;
Like icicles off our shoulders.

And the stars look down and wonder:

(Ponder, amused, is more like it)

If they've seen before the sparks of snowfall all 'round.

The fire's quite brilliant, so hot;
The glint off our smiles are all we need to see--
We're not reading.

For we're the people in darkness who've seen a great light;
That pokes around and burns our eyelids and brings joy in the purest form--
Laughter.

Even so or anyways
If this was not the truth
Then as so would be the called-upon, sad explanation:
Roasting marshmallows and sipping cider are activities not requiring much light.

The finely forged snowflakes drop down,
Paratroopers and the forerunners of joy;
Sent by God as a proclamation.

And these lights have never be so hot,
And these lights have never felt so magical;
While making the evergreen steam and be damp and warm.

12/2/12-12/26/12