Convalescence

I am glad for the stone walls
that keep, barely,
the wind at bay; outside, there is snow
on the withered apple trees.
We shall have a white Christmas, which,
once, you remembered to me,
and tossed a single long apple peel
over your shoulder, although
you never did look at it
once it landed.
One branch still bears
a winter apple, small and bitter like
the memory of an empty fall,
all of its golden brethren
gone, and my youth with them.
I have seen colder winters than this,
but, too, have had
warmer fires; yet,
the coals still glow, and yes,
I am cold, but
I have been colder in the winter.
I drink tea that cannot be called hot
anymore, and, for the first time,
I remember your mouth
without bitterness;
sipping a meager warmth,
I begin the long wait
for spring.

Yeah, this is quite pretty. I also love the use of temperature and seasons in poetry to express something deeper than, obviously, the seasons. The cadence of your language is also very pretty and the only line that feels a little awkward to me is "all of its golden brethren". I can't put my finger on what it is about the phrase, but something irks me. I think I am just going a little crazy though.