Earmuffed

Before I leave my warm bed

every morning

you earmuff me.

I am hugged

by soft spheres of sunshine,

and smothered

by the heat of

cordial stovetops.

I walk into your world

every afternoon,

encompassed by

your gracious gift.

My wool coat invades my

personal space,

but you tell me that it's

better that I'm too warm,

that the alternative, freezing,

is much less favorable.

I wander

cobblestone roads,

doing what I must to avoid the

falling snowflakes that you

warn me about.

When curiosity crushes

my contentment

I remove my layers, and

I am no longer earmuffed.

I am no longer coated.

I am no longer encased in your

illusion of safety.

But to my surprise, the warmth

doesn't vanish…

I finally feel the wrath of the wildfires

raging in front of me,

and I can finally differentiate

falling snowflakes

from

falling ash.