Retreat
The smoke stains on the windows
Attempt to obscure the crystal morning light
Of a chill autumn morning, a last leaf
Of fall glory, dangling,
Waiting for the next strong breeze
To carry it into snow covered oblivion.
The cabin creaks and pops
As the wood burning stove joins forces with the sun,
Chasing the breath revealing chill from the room
As my mug warms my hands and I
Blink the morning brightness tears from my eyes.
Hunched against the cold in the small, bare room
That’s located about halfway between
Nowhere and someplace nobody’s ever been to,
I, an anti-woodsman, find myself here again
As surely as the red-wing blackbird
Shouts his early morning lauds to the sun.
I returned to sleep deeply in the lonely darkness,
Surrounded by great-grandmother oaks,
Then woke to start the fire, brew my coffee,
And stare through the window,
The piano wire muscles of my back, shoulders, and neck
Melting with every crack-crackle and pop of the fire.
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