Cold as it should be again
the ground cracking
in the windless dove-colored dawn
veiled face of a humbled sun
low across the south behind trees
casting weak shadows over the paths
between woods and a two-story frame
with its old-brick chimney
and its ladder of smoke
the house still occupied
the fires still burning
in the made and the makers
in the made and the makers
everything everything
losing its heat into a pale heaven.
