“Winter evenings by the fire”

Blue dusk deepens at the window’s edge—  
The world outside is lace of frost and hush.  
Inside, the quiet sings—a gentle pledge  
Of warmth, and ember’s slow, contented blush.  

Crackling hearth, with flames that lean and bow,  
Spills golden honey on the old oak floor.  
Woolen socks, a steaming mug, and now  
A stray dog settles by the shadowed door.  

There’s comfort in the ticking of the clock,  
A murmur of the world, subdued and mild.  
Above, the corners cradle knitted stock,  
Each stitch the memory of a winter child.  

A lap of laughter, stories winding thread—  
The fire paints our faces, soft and bright.  
Outside, the snowdrifts fold the garden bed,  
While here, the heart grows taller in the light.  

Evenings such as these, where hush and spark  
Collide within a hearth’s determined glow—  
We gather up the night and leave a mark  
Of warmth to carry everywhere we go.

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