Earthenware mugs sit on the table
filled with hot chocolate, now cold.
The little boys have run wild again,
outside with the blizzard-like winds,
laughing as they burrow into the snow,
burying themselves in layers of ice,
encasing their bodies in a womb-like tomb
where they can retreat from adulthood,
back away from life’s worries, head back
to a time when life was always nurtured
forever warm and safe, even when —
especially when –- it was cold outside.

Note: This was my first attempt at a Jackpine sonnet. For more about Jackpine sonnets, read this.

Photo credit: Ruthanne Reid, via flickr // CC BY 2.0


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