birthday twins

We children of December push
a shovel full of thick heavy snow
shifting the cold into piles

like pretty maids in curvy rows beside
the path.  One wears black boots
the other brown slippers.

Come, pretty maids, grow in the storm
let the white satin accumulate
spin like taffeta at a dance,

turn before the piny hills,
where sudden infants lay still
in a dream of twinned meadows,
twinned red pine, the red needles of midnight
huddled under the fabric

wander the corn stalks across from Mr. Day
steal the purity from the moonlight

We children of December pull
skates along the edges of the pool
shifting the cold into endless lines

like a broken mother in brown shoes
old and worn. Sleep tired twins
with many dreams of broth and dew

mewl before the wrinkled sheets
where expected babes will rest
in a fit of lonely darkness
lonely together, alabaster blankets of morning
curled and fetal under the fabric

We children of December
One flesh, not mind,
We come, like pretty maids,
Come like our dear old mother
and celebrate the wanton blizzards of youth.