The stark afternoon
a mix of wintry cold,
spliced by the distant rumble of an idling truck.
cutting logs, to stack by the front door.
Big piles turning larger,
smoke billowing from the tiny chimney.
A little dog perched on my lap, on the porch swing.
empty soda cans strewn across the table by your chair.
Popcorn drowned in butter,
and the sound of an old Western show.
thick paperback books, stacked on your nightstand.
The deep, wispy laughter of an elderly couple,
too young to be old.
I remember home.