One More Winter
Oct 15 2009


The scent of wood-smoke.
Crisp leaves
crunching underfoot,
whipped into tiny whirlwinds.
The relentless descent
into darkness.

Who isn’t melancholy
in the fall?
Literally “black bile”;
which sounds envious, mean,
instead of that bittersweet feeling
of loss
and repose
and time’s indifferent speed.
As bodies grow older,
the cold penetrates deep,
and you find you’ve lost a step
bucking wood
raking leaves
bringing-in the sunshade and deck chairs
you hauled out last spring —
too flimsy
for winter.

The woodstove eases
your aching joints,
you can’t look away from the flame.
The forecast is calling for snow.
You imagine drifts against the door
half-way up the windows.
You can’t wait to be storm-stayed,
certain you’ll make
one more winter
at least.