Droplets fall on the paling petals
of cherry blossoms just past their bright pink
phase, when their fingers are soft
and ours intertwine gloveless.
The sidewalk is potentially slick
so I proffer my arm and you take it.
The evenings get chilly, peppermints
enhance the evening tongue’s tingle.
Laughter is warming, and we feel
like dragons pluming smoke.
Waiting for a bus, the streetlight
looks like a halo around your knit cap.
We all know refraction causes
the rainbows which dash across the ice
scuttled mid-puddle, but I still point
and as you turn to look, sneak a kiss.
The chill of your cheek,
the pinkened, coy smile.
We are dragons exhaling—
we burn the frostbitten evening.
Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer living in San Diego. His writing has recently appeared in The Southern Review, The Louisville Review, Fence, Rosebud, Meridian, North American Review, The Cortland Review, Portland Review, Texas Review and Fjords Review, among others. He publishes a writing prompt blog Notebooking Daily with its print companion Notebooking Periodically, and is the editor of the fledgling journal Coastal Shelf.