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.