The Work of Warmth

Minus five and the snow is still. No wind at the moment.
Nothing to indicate what is next. More storm or melt.

There are predictions, of course.
There are always predictions, half-science
and half wishful thinking. Half

(yes, I know the math does not work)
a denial of history. You sip your coffee,
a cup-sized bundle of resistance,
steam rising. But we know what happens:

Here, now, in this moment,
the cold always wins. Chills bite
to the bone, and we all hide from it
except the few who believe
in spring before it’s time.

They are the ones who chop wood. They light fires.
Big. Blazing. Hot. Fires.
They understand that while winter has its place,
it is a hard place to live
forever.

So they do the work of warmth.
Feeding the fires that the snow would extinguish,
that the winds on the horizon
massed like a masked army
poised to smother. They do the work of warmth
to bring us light, life, and the promise of spring.

About this poem

Inspired by the times. Inspired by this story of over 100 clergy arrested for peaceful protest in Minnesota. Inspired by my worry for the homeless my church serves each week. Inspired by the fact that it really is minus five this morning. A paen of praise for those who do the work of caring for people, in whatever form that work takes, in an increasingly uncaring world.

Or a poem about winter. Poetry is rarely about one thing.

The photograph was taken in Kennebunkport, Maine.

Tom