In the dead of night she comes
padding on the ice cold boards.
When all is pitch and shadows she comes,
dodging phantoms and breathing smoke
creeping to us in the night.
She comes to a stop at the end of the bed,
burrowing deep under covers,
wriggling and writhing, emitting frost, like Jack,
garnered on her journey through the pitch.
In the darkness of every night she comes
creeping and writhing,
colding us from our dreams.
Shrinking to the bed sides, we awake annoyed.
We turn, ready to roar and rage our irks,
to a sweet, blameless face and humid, breathy snufflings
In the dead of night,
fast asleep and glowing,
she rests in the warmth between us.