window seat
"I don't even like the snow,"
I tell myself,
sitting on the plane—
looking out
the window, in the dark,
at the tiny lights
of the cities far
below—on my way
home, where it snows
"but I suppose"
where I go every year
and stay about
a week in December,
trying (mostly)
to keep warm
inside
"it's nice to look at"