by Lenora Rain-Lee Good
from the photo, Winter Sun by Sharmagne Leland-St. John
He is late from gathering the wood.
It is so cold out, even the sun is frozen.
He is late bringing the wood.
It is below zero outside; my frozen breath sighs as it falls.
I hear a noise, I open the front door, is he home?
It is Arctic out, even the rabbit stays burrowed.
What did I hear? The icy snow is pristine, the meandering winds
fill in all tracks. Where is he? Please, come home, come home.
Again, a noise. It has been hours; our last wood burns.
It is frigid out, if he is not home soon, it will be frigid in.
The frozen sun floats down toward the mountains–and night.
I open the door and hear his whistle before he comes into view.
I grab my winter shawl, fly across the snow and ice,
my feet never touch the freezing earth, help him bring the wood.
It is cold out; the sun is frozen in the dark clouds.
My heart is warm as our blazing hearth. He is home, he is home.