I count the stars
Every December,
Hoping for the sky
To burst aflame
In fiery gold.
So I might remember,
The honey,
That drips
With an exquisite slowness
Into the depths of
My tea.
Or the lick
Of flames
From a wildfire
Stoked in the woods
To roast
Sugary marshmallows.
Or the burn
Of candles
Coated in glitter,
That smell of
The amber depths
Of a spiced apple toddy,
That I will toast
To the stars
In January.