Coming In Out of the Cold

Jan 18 2020

In the warm months

walls become porous.

You pass seamlessly in and out,

the screen door

slapping shut behind you.

Birdsong

wafts through open windows.

Insects find their way in,

as well as the sprinkler's phhht-phhht-phhht

circling in the verdant grass.

And the hard black bodies

of bottlenose flies

hurtle against the glass

buzzing frantically.

Then briefly pause,

poised motionless

on hair-thin legs

as if confused by transparency

and stopping to think.

But now

windows are sealed, doors firmly closed.

And coming in out of the cold

into bright steamy warmth

it's as if you've been transported

to a parallel world.

You hustle quickly in

welcomed by a blast of heat,

cold astringent air

still clinging to your clothes.

You stamp your boots of snow

and feel your face flush,

fingertips tingling

with the slow return of blood.

There's the smell of home

contained within these walls.

The savoury aroma

of something roasting

pan-blackened fish.

The burnt sweetness

of caramelized onions

sizzled in rendered fat.

And garlic butter
mixed with mashed potatoes

a dash of pepper and chives.

From a distance

the windows cast a comforting glow,

soft incandescence

on cold hard snow.

And the house

seems to beckon you on,

a warm outpost

in the still dark of night.

This is the note (edited slightly) I included when I sent out the first draft of this poem to my first readers:

As in the previous poem, Remains, I'm trying to get more short and less linear. This one, as do most, failed. It's much more my traditional descriptive sort of thing. But I like that too:  that idea of close observation and microcosm. So instead of compressing big ideas, it's taking something small and fully exploring it. Instead of distilling language, it's taking pleasure in celebrating words and surrendering to them. That is, it is unapologetic in its richness of detail and sensation.