Red Cottages
In summer we open our houses
like camping gear, expand
into all the rooms, push open windows,
set tables and chairs beyond the walls,
take meals al fresco,
chilled wine but a vertical refreshment,
bugs passing playthings,
birds minor amusements,
the world moving freely around us
as we lean against each other and the trees,
our warmth fine haloes,
oak leaves a chamber orchestra,
pine strings in the fully opened amphitheater
with a ceiling of stars only cold stones
strewn about an infinitely unfurnished sky.
In winter the house shrinks to
one room pulled close to a fire,
most-needed things arranged
in sets from flames to walls,
door space to reach into the pantry,
the bedroom a low kennel
we crawl into and warm each other.
As the fire collapses,
we interleaf,
breathe each other’s warm exhalations,
and would disappear
except for the broad face
of the moon pressed to the window.