Anticipation of Christmas
On a gray weekend in early November
I collect and chop fallen limbs
From the old trees of last winter and this summer
Fill my wheelbarrow with kindling sticks
Quiver of arrows
Stacked in my garage
By rot and size
I resist the urge
To build a fire
Until the real first snow of the season
Flies
It can take days or weeks of waiting
Past Thanksgiving
Closer and closer to the bloom of Christmas
I wonder if the time will ever arrive
In time
But even then
When a snow scrambles our porch light
Paws the windows
And the first fire catches and snaps at its splinters
Family room filling with candle glow
I throw on my winter coat
Go outside
Sit in the dark
A dad in an old black and white film
Arm wrapped around his son’s shoulder
Listening to the big snowflakes
Bacon sizzle
The skillet of dried up leaves
Moonlight fogged with burning incense
Cherry and Oak from my chimney smoke
Smells like home
I’m not alone
Time displayed in a Christmas storefront window
It’s going to be all right for quite a while longer.
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