First Fire - Nov 12 2021

 

First Fire

Nov 12 2021

November snow.

The shoulder season.

The month in between,

tipping from fall to winter

then slipping back.

Or at least until the next storm.

A dump of fresh gumbo;

a foot of wet gloppy snow

that sticks to branches and leaves,

taking down doddering trees

and leaving the small ones

bowed-down beneath its weight.

Like a congregation at prayer,

all lowering their heads

out of respect

for the gods of weather.

Saturated snow,

so icy water's dripping off

like wringing out a sponge.

Treacherous roads, risk of flood.

And all month

grey oppressive skies,

a chill in the air

that cuts to the bone.

But we have been schooled

to look for the good

even in adversity.

So I console myself

that the woods have been culled,

openings for light

and nascent growth.

That the unexpected snow

will recharge grudging wells,

depleted from a dry spring

and summer drought.

And that I am safely inside

after a near-miss drive,

stripping off wet socks

tense against the chill.

I light the wood-stove

for the season's first fire,

its radiant heat

and warmly muted glow

suffusing the house.

A soporific heat

that sinks deep into my core,

and I feel immobilized

staring into the flickering flames

entranced.

Too heavy to shovel.

Still time to melt.