The Winter House

The wind begins its business with the eaves,
a lawyer tapping windows for their flaws.
It knows the debts a winter night retrieves,
and keeps its docket cold with pending laws.

This house on Boulevard, near Street's bend
has watched us change, and feared the change it sees
the year we learned a silence could offend,
the cough too long, the limp in colder breeze.

Once, Linus - all confusion, ears and bark -
devoured the painted chickens by the stove.
The Steady One was not amused; her spark
of fury filled the kitchen more than love.
But later, laughing, she repaired their wings -
with glue and patience, both her truest things.

The stair complains, as stairs are bound to do,
yet holds each foot as if aware the day
may come when just one tread comes passing through -
a sound the other strain to wish away.

The walls have heard us bargain with the night,
pretend that spring is merely running late.
Yet sometimes, in the lamplight’s thinning light,
we hold a hand because we fear to wait.

The fire keeps low; it seldom boasts or leaps,
like someone careful not to wake the doubt
that warmth is something only borrowed, keeps
its counsel quiet so it’s not found out.

We like to say this house won’t ever break -
that beams hold true, that nothing here can part.
But homes can tremble for the people’s sake,
and shudder when they overhear the heart.

So hand in hand, we speak of trifling things -
the price of wood, the snowplow’s tardy run.
Yet in that talk, a deeper pleading rings:
Stay with me here - stay warm - stay someone’s one.

The wind persists. The rafters raise complaint.
The night is long, and cold will have its due.
But love leans in when walls grow thin and faint -
and holds the house together - as we do.

GBS
2017