Northwestern Comfort

The wet fields on the way to work,

carpeted in sunset,

await the returning geese.

 

A rainbow unmasks the clouds

as the grey warehouse roof steams

in the same rising sheen as the bay.

 

Long hours,

short days,

the breath itself a signal.

 

Our ancestors knew

a candle in the window

was more than a small flame.

 

They came in from the rain,

never imaging a night shift

in galoshes.

 

Meals on the run,

barely time for notes, kisses,

or lists.

 

This is the study.

The learning

door to door.

 

Daylight poets have their bench,

bundled and scarved

they slog and sled.

 

My comfort; my blanket,

my pillow, my bed, all a dream

I trust in You to wake.