December
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Housewarming
by Thomas R. Smith
In my dream
I was the first to arrive
at the old home from the church.
Wind and night had forced
through the cracks.
I pushed inside,
turned on the lamps,
lit a fire in the stove.
Frozen oak logs stung my fingers;
it was good pain,
my hands reddening
on the icy broom-handle
as I swept away snow.
On Christmas Eve,
I prepared a warm place
for my mother and father,
sister and brothers,
grandparents, all my relatives,
none dead,
none missing,
none angry with one another,
all coming through the woods.
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Poem: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Poem: Surgery Ward, December 8
Poem: Might Have Been July, Might Have Been December