December Morning

I think of the way,
on a cold December morning,
the sun creeps in through the window
and covers my hands,
kissing the frigid tips of my fingers.
I watch the light dance
through the film on the panes
and lose myself
in the whisper of warmth.
Legs tangled in a sea of blankets,
I roll over and close my eyes,
inhaling cinnamon
and pine
and the married scent
of your skin on my skin.
Tucked under the covers
with your hand on my heart,
basking in the golden glow,
I quiet my ruminating
and drift off into a
peaceful slumber.