Snow falls on the pines, we race the sleigh in red wine time,
your mittened hand finds mine beneath the lights we strung last night.
Laughing at the angels we tried to make, their wings too wide,
we carve our names in frozen bark, a heart around ’25.
Evergreens keep our secrets like carols in their needles,
every breath is cider-spiced, every glance a star regal.
Let the city fade to hush; this barn is shining armor—
I’m home wherever your scarf is wrapped, my December farmer.