by Dawn Pisturino
When November came, We sat around the kitchen table after dark, Telling chilling tales Of ghosts and other phantoms of the night, While wooden logs crackled and burned On the old stone hearth, And a cold wind wrapped its spectral arms Around the ancient wooden cottage. We warmed ourselves with hot mulled wine And spiced apple cakes, thickly iced, -- Laughed at our superstitious fears While trembling in the candle-light. The old crone, at the stroke of midnight, Told our fortunes in our hands: Wedding bells for the shiny-eyed young maid In spring, and a son born by the end of next year. The yellow moon peeked in at the windows, Laughing at our humble ways, Then rose into the sky on a thousand brooms, A friendly witness to our midnight celebration. Holding hands, we danced in the moonlight, Our cloaks pressed tightly against The frosty cold; and when morning dawned, Feathery snowflakes drifted from the sky, Nature’s sign that Winter celebrated, too.