a fifty fourth poem...'fire'

It’s only the wind, you think to yourself, as the fire dies, and shadows flicker and fall on the drawing room wall, snow on the window ledge, snow driven right up to the front door.  It’s only the wind whistling through the key hole, cold and fresh in the hallway, where your boots, your boots, frayed laces dusted with snow, and the wet trail of your warm, wet feet, in your warm, wet socks indoors, wet footprints across the flagstone floor.  Your hands in the firelight, cross-hatched, etched by lines of age, calluses – you’ll keep them, calluses, for there’s still life in your warm body, warm blood in your fingertips and toes, it’s only the wind.  The logs on the fire, you felled the tree, sharpened the flint, cut the logs for the fire, your grip on the axe handle strong as ever split the wood, and the white smoke from the chimney, there’s still life in this house. Yes, it’s only the wind, there’s still air in your lungs for the bellows, and the flame burns inside your warm body, and your chest lifts and falls, lifts and falls while the fire dances on the drawing room wall, and the flames reflect in your eyes as coals, and the fire hisses and crackles and spits. It’s only the wind, she’s gone, dust and ashes, and a wardrobe full of old clothes, it’s only the wind whistling through the key hole, the hallway draft, her creased leather boots next to yours, cold inside, laces tied fast, soles worn, your soles with mud and ice, frayed laces dusted with snow. Tonight, you’ll go to sleep beside the fire.