Home Fires

Home Fires 

My first ten winters were spent barefoot and
fat on California sunshine.

My eleventh winter crammed my feet
into boots that leaked
starved for vitamin D.

Moving to upstate New York in 1977, 

was like going back in time.
Urban sidewalks replaced by
snow banks along dirt roads.
 

Isolated by cold and snow,

separated from grandparents and friends. 

Older step-brothers bullied me

and Mom lied;

the sled ride down the hill

was not worth the trek up it.

We collected wood to burn
after my step-father cut down the tree
and cut it into sections.

With frozen fingers and runny noses,
we’d stack damp hemlock on a flatbed trailer
pulled behind a rusted Impala.

After it was chopped
we burned the wood in a
55 gallon drum.

That drum got red hot.
My sister fell against it once, and
two layers of skin peeled off her hand
like a flour tortilla.

Food was often scarce as
dry wood in the winter.
When the well-pump froze
we hauled water up by the bucket.

If the wood stove went out at night
we’d wake in the morning
able to see our breath
snow coming through
cracks under windows.

So I learned to get up
soon as the house
started to chill.

I’d feel my way down dark stairs
to the big black barrel,
stir white hot ashes,
throw more wood in,
wait to make sure the fire caught.

Upstairs I would disappear under
an antique quilt.

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Thank you, James, for indulging me by reading my poems, and for being so encouraging. You have lifted my spirits, given me more confidence in my poetry, and helped me get past writer's block just by validating my poems.   

I find it amazing how much of yourself you give to your fans. I don't want you to get burned out, so if reading my poetry is ever too much, or not right for you, please let me know. I will understand.