Paper Boots

I have a pair of paper boots.
They get soggy after puddle-jumping,
and we make new ones from old newspaper.
Inhaling the inky smell, our laughter louder than the crinkling,
we steal kisses even as we dodge thrown mittens, still wet from brown snow.

Hung to dry over the mantle, bursting into flames,
we notice only the ashes later as our twin fires burn low,
exhausted energy spent on one another.
I kiss your fluttering eyelids to sleep,
and you murmur softly in your dream-world,
far from snow and fire,
while I marvel at the stillness of your face,
the slight part of your lips,
the soft curve of your back in my hand.

As many lights in the sky as sparks from a log;
the bricks stacked to shape our fire glowing with an inner heat;
we two make more light than God
in this moment, our moment,
and rest when our day is done.

This is a world where few are found,
and we are a privileged few who dwell here.