Getting Lucky in December

Snow White-fresh, you wandered into a forest,
pushed your way through the tangled ferny
undergrowth, and breathed in zesty green
enchantment. Freezing your behind off,
you curled up in front of a fireplace
in a charming farm-cum-hotel-cum-spa
with clusters of chambray napkins, vivid pink
candlesticks, ornate little knives and spoons;
French wine bottles like shimmery crack vials.
The winters do get chilly. You shed your sweater
in the rustic boudoir—a beautiful centerpiece
draped, nymph-like, over a paisley pillow.
Tea rose to scent your underthings, hibiscus
in your hair, you blushed and opened like a locket.