I'd look into this farmhouse window forever just to keep you warm at the kitchen table: khaki pants, blue flannel shirt, wool socks, old eyes frosted like this winter pane. So I linger here, outside, boots slow over crusted leaves, with the half beaten snow from last nights storm being pressed between limestone pavers as I walk. I watch the light from the lamp flit on your white hair as my hand pulls open the door, releases the latch. I hear the rap of suitcase wheels on pine boards, your voice greeting me as I discard my winter jacket and pile it on the rack. I know you'll be soon to follow, drifting toward me -- you'll smell of sandalwood and cedar, like this timeworn house, graced with needlepoints, photos and figurines. And you'll sigh, with your knees bent, hands pulling at my hands. A smile will form, revealing the little boy in you as he peels back the door of your pupils, climbs through, sits and rests the soles of his boots on the lines of your irises, forming the crook of his back to the inner, aged dome. And I'll want to pull you tighter, hold onto that little boy in you forever, keep my cheek pressed against your blue flannel shirt and see the life lingering in those eyes, with your boots never leaving your floor. But I know I can't stay forever, even as I close this farmhouse door.