woodstove picnic

i tiptoe from the bathroom in the elbow of night and our room is empty, duvet shoved aside and pillows gone

turn soft on carpet and my eyes adjust and
he's laid a blanket before embers, pillows warming, and it's a woodstove picnic

we lie in the quiet of a sleeping house, timber sighing deep even as the roof snores beneath winter's warm

our son stretches cherub, tucked away in crib, one hand curled into fist as if to hurt the bad guys

and it's our world now, in the glowing
just one week ago we sat here, pretending fire, wondering when, and now
wood snaps red and orange and it's as though a sunset for the flame

everything slows for the heating of house by wood, and it's effort now, but not without glory, and every half hour, another stoke and poke and bark catching light


he finds my hand
we hold each other
on the blanket in the basement

chimney smoking grey as heat rises



(linking to chatting at the sky and one shot poetry)