And in the Winter, extra blankets for the cold, fix the heater (getting old)

We had a sliding patio door of glass.

February frozen.

Final, ’til the spring.

A poor insulator,

it grew small spires of frost, even inside.

Like so many iron filings

straining to a magnet, only white.

Quarter inch runnels of ice said we were locked in, for now.

I stand in pajamas.

Run fingernails down,

bunching cold cakes of whiteness under each.

A throwback to my ten year old self,

I make a squeaky wipe on the fogged glass,

and peer into the next dimension.

Minus thirty says the little red thermometer,

as a tiny grey-brown visitor swoops in and lands on the windswept stones.

How can these wee birds, with toes smaller than a pencil lead,

not freeze in an instant?

So thin, so small, nothing to eat.

I run and get bread, and the hair dryer.

Thaw the frosty door, pull it open with a groan.

Scare little buddy away, but I toss the bread anyway.

I think he went to tell the others.

In five minutes, it’s party time.


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