First
Winter

The house drew in —
the way he breathed in cold — one long exhale, then stillness.
Dark took hold. Ice fern had pressed its pattern
on the sill; the rafters braced.
The house breathed on. Held still.

She stacked the wood
the way that wood gets stacked: bark out to weather,
bad rounds pulled and racked. He'd tap each round once — flat —
to seat it true. Her hand rose to the next round.
Did that too.

Her son came out and checked it —
in the snow — he sighted down the top course,
tilted low, one eye half-shut,
the line of it his guide. She saw her husband there.
She stepped inside.

Her daughter called one evening.
Before speech, she heard a breath drawn in —
she knew that reach: three seconds held. His pause.
The breath again. Her daughter spoke.
The same breath heard again.

She worked the damper.
Felt the cold run straight along her back, from nape to hip.
The weight — his hand had rested there;
not placed, not willed — just always there.
She kept her eyes. She stilled.

The lake went iron.
January came. The fire held.
The house held what it held. She turned toward the fire.
The cold stayed on — the length of him,
from nape to hip, and gone.