John M. Ridland

So this is aging: the bare sun, skinned, palely bucking the dark wind, slides through the glass, crawls on the carpet, climbs the footboard, lies crosswise on the blanket, a spoiled dog waiting to be fed. Not now, dear warmth. The kindling’s in the shed, too far to fetch. Those two great logs that close together to make fire, repose apart, an old couple reminiscing on conflagrations they’re now missing: how every sunny Saturday afternoon, Hey, diddle-diddle, the dish ran away with the spoon. Not yet, dear spoon. Some hotter day, dear dish. No tidbits now. Instead, let’s make a wish, and boil fresh water for the small teapot to keep it piping hot.

We had so little, yet we had so much: Thunder and lightning at the lightest touch.