hibernation

Heard Them Stirring

The smell of balsam fir upon arrival home,
the scent and sense of security
of winter's months we spend hidden in,
never wanting to leave, locking doors, shuttering windows
we peek through to watch the black and gray of small birds
in contrast to the fallen snow, suddenly away
with a knock, a ring, a passing rumble,
we scatter the same to hide in a room of pine,
well knowing the crackle and smolder of the fire before us,
her smoke and ash escaping through a flue, have given up our ghosts
as sure as the smell of balsam fir upon arrival home.