At night I awaken and listen
to the house creak, its boards sharpening
in the cold. Days we stay inside,
looking out the window,
and wonder at a world so deep
into temperature. A nuthatch
tweaks thistle seed from a feeder
suction-cupped to the pane.
In moments like this spent close to glass,
how understandable my life is,
inside the heavy ribs of my navy sweater.
I watch the small bird rise
and light on a high branch.
Sposed to be a worse winter than most, indeed! Good thing there are winter-warmnesses stored up in the memory box to keep it winter-toasty: