Outside, the drifting snow accumulates
on pine trees reaching toward a goose-grey sky.
I watch a solitary Blue Jay fly
where fading light at dusk illuminates
the tracks a deer inserted in the snow
which, should this wild precipitation stay
as strong, will all be finely brushed away.
I am at home. I have nowhere to go.
Inside, the light is warm, the room is warm. A chair
awaits my presence at a table where
I’ll sip my coffee, sit, and write this poem
to celebrate, commemorate a time
when both outside and inside came to rhyme.
I have nowhere to go. I am at home.
