Comfort - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

As we stamp through the storm,
wind-whipped snow slashes
my neck where the scarf
blew away. The house is near.
Its lights are yellow as pools
of melted butter. ``Courage,
little ones,’’ I shout. ``Look there.’’
The storm had pounced over the pond
where we skated and pushed the sled,
the smallest child on it heaped with blankets.
Our friend Elizabeth had called us early.
``Come, come! It’s black ice today!’’
The calm, shining dark surface excited
to stroke harder, leaning, hypnotized
by ice as smooth as baby skin,
glossy as topaz. The winter trees
empty of leaves stroke the gray sky
like characters on a Chinese scroll.
All was spare, wild, still and frozen.
Until the wind fell out of a snow cloud
and took away the far edges of the pond.
Holding hands, we made for the shore
and our shoes. Standing in the yellow doorway,
Elizabeth, her long braids coiled around each ear
like a royal headdress, hurries us
to the fire where hot chocolate waits
for the children and bourbon for us.
We sip. The wind howls outside.