Plodding Windward

Feb 27 2012




The woodstove draws well

in a stiff wind.

Smoke, blowing horizontal,

as if the house were a ship

plodding windward

all battened-down.

Cinders fanned, briefly glowing

land on the slope of the roof,

smudge

freshly fallen snow.


I feed the fire

on a freezing night,

its appetite for fuel

insatiable.

As if banished to the lowest deck,

black with coal, soaked in sweat

stoking

some infernal boiler.


But downwind, it smells of home,

warm notes of birch

acrid spruce,

pockets of sap

popping and crackling.

Greedily sampled

like sailors long at sea

at the first whiff of land.

Who knew

soil could smell so sweet.

That each port-of-call

is a fine wine,

with its own subtle nose

redolent of home.


My house is a point of light

that glows in the distance,

a beacon on a blasted shore

blinking out its warning

its reassuring warmth.

A remote outpost of man,

making its stand

against the elements.

Until nature

gives a careless shrug

and we are snuffed out,

a candle in a heedless puff

extinguished.

Impressed

by her effortless indifference.

Awe struck,

at such utter 
magnificence.