I like camping, anyway.

I'm sitting by the fire alone
its heat soaking into my skin and
almost painful against the cold
of the room--the heater's broken.
You come back and, grimly,
shake your head, putting down
the flashlight to scoop up a
protesting cat, whom you hold
and nuzzle as you sit beside me.

I scritch her chin and she extends it
but mewls angrily, except she purrs
as she glares up at us, and when we
let her go she runs across the room
but grabs her toy and runs right back
dropping it dingling at our feet.

I throw it for her and she bolts away,
and leaning into you I say, "We'll
be okay tonight. They'll curl up with
us, under the blankets, for warmth."
You nod, and sure enough the cats
array themselves around us in front
of the fire. By the time the repairman
shows up the next day, we've made
hot chocolate twice and you've got your
super-duper spicy chili on the stove.

Obviously the milk is fine, so I have
a full bowl, and survive, grateful for
a broken heater.

Frost dreams

Watching the sun rise
while standing in a forest
catching the glimpses of sky
between trees and pine needles
made easier because of winter
You ask why I love summer
so much when it is winter
that gives us glimpses of
the sun I idolize.
Holding your hand I
take you to stand out in
a field sixty meters wide
and point to brown ground
with its twisted grass corpses
and say, "In summer these
are flowers, weeds, seeds;
not just grass but also
life reborn, a field
of sunshine wherein
we, too, begin growing."
But you laugh and dig up
a piece of dirt to show me
a seed, and say, "Too late, see?
We are even now planted, waiting,
Though we don't grow much, we
spread our roots while sleeping,
and though springs warms our
roots, it's winter that settles
us, that makes us dream of
summer in the first place."

We watch the sun rise
through slips of trees and pine
and I hold your hand, wishing
the spring's warmth would return,
but last summer, I really wanted
just a simple taste of frost.