Why Have I Returned To New England

It seems there's always an icicle
or pair of them
hanging, over an infant,

a sleeping newborn infant,
O subtle return to that which matters—
boat on the harbor—

quick flash of blue
in the lid of the Zippo—
the softest, darkest of hair

gently loosed from a bun,
then put up again,
almost immediately.

***

So very cold tonight.
An Amish beard in the road.
The humor of logs, of twigs.

A single twist of smoke from the chimney,
taking its place on the mind.