"Winter Sestina"
This winter we have no heating,
and I have learned to layer.
I take pleasure in washing dishes under the warm tap
and I light candles too, though we have electric
light.
But the house is never as silent
as I wish it were, silent
like a cabin heated
by wood fire. The light
is good here, though, layered
through trees and glass and never electric.
In the morning, as if to tap
me awake, rain falls. The bath taps
too, throughout the night, but it is silenced
by slow breath and the hum of electricity
in the wires outside-- the sound of heat.
The house sinks beneath the water, a new layer
each morning. I am not surprised, there is nothing light
about winter. Lighting
the stove, I crack the last of the eggs and wait for the tap
to warm. I have many layers
of routine but still manage to worry about the silence
in my life. I have never known the heat
of summer, the electric
nights-- instead I sort through old mail and electricity
bills and vow to never turn on another light.
As I heat
coffee, you come up and tap
my elbow silently
and I give a start, as if shaken from my layers.
You don't tell me you are cold, but I see you shiver through the layered
bedsheets (one of them is electric,
though broken). Our silence
escapes through us and we stare, wondrous, as if dimly lit.
We will know when we've tapped
this vein dry. There will be no heat,
no silence. The house will succumb to the layers
of rain. I will take the heat for never giving enough, for reducing everything electric
about you. I should be sorry then, as light goes out with hardly a tap.
and I have learned to layer.
I take pleasure in washing dishes under the warm tap
and I light candles too, though we have electric
light.
But the house is never as silent
as I wish it were, silent
like a cabin heated
by wood fire. The light
is good here, though, layered
through trees and glass and never electric.
In the morning, as if to tap
me awake, rain falls. The bath taps
too, throughout the night, but it is silenced
by slow breath and the hum of electricity
in the wires outside-- the sound of heat.
The house sinks beneath the water, a new layer
each morning. I am not surprised, there is nothing light
about winter. Lighting
the stove, I crack the last of the eggs and wait for the tap
to warm. I have many layers
of routine but still manage to worry about the silence
in my life. I have never known the heat
of summer, the electric
nights-- instead I sort through old mail and electricity
bills and vow to never turn on another light.
As I heat
coffee, you come up and tap
my elbow silently
and I give a start, as if shaken from my layers.
You don't tell me you are cold, but I see you shiver through the layered
bedsheets (one of them is electric,
though broken). Our silence
escapes through us and we stare, wondrous, as if dimly lit.
We will know when we've tapped
this vein dry. There will be no heat,
no silence. The house will succumb to the layers
of rain. I will take the heat for never giving enough, for reducing everything electric
about you. I should be sorry then, as light goes out with hardly a tap.
by brian at 1:43 AM
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