i stand in the window
watching blue waters,
aware that the weeks
have been few since
we swam there.

note the change
of morning air, the jacket
taken out and cleaned,
the snap on bare skin,

knowing that the woods
won't warm through day,
and that night, coming early,
will be brittle with star.

i think fire
is a simple answer.
clean the dead brush
stacked and waiting.
kindling for hard
wood fuel.
fire in the belly of our
wood stove
warming the rooms
that we live in.

it's easier
to plan for the winter
now that i've seen
seventy come and go.

i'm softer believing  
that i'm the warmest in
the dark hard hours before
dawn, laying here
listening to you breathe.