Wild

The field was empty white
with not a mark on the secluded ache
of this January day.

Even the wild turkeys making their marks
as they filed quietly
like old monks toward the brightest hill
looking for apples
under the snow.

The monotony of the wind and biting cold
wore us down today until all that was left
was the urge to sleep.

The fire crackles and huffs up the chimney
drawing the will for more heat
to rise.

All we can do is throw on another log
and pray in our humble shawls rocking a
nd look out at everything wild
past the fortress of this old house.