Quilts

It is a cold
And dreary day.
The mist has not
Left the pond
And still tarries
On the creek.
It gathers,
Forms into drops
That quietly fall
Midst the leaves
And acorns laying
Round my cabin.

As I sit on the porch
Looking up at the
Old tin roof,
I think of the quilts
Unused through summer
Waiting like old friends
Just for a
Night like this.

Pick one that pleases.
Snuggle with me
Into a deep
Feather bed
And dare the mist
To creep in
Under the door.
We shall laugh
At the impotence
Of the cold.
Secure and safe
In an old iron bed.