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.