Without warning, you alter my day —
wanting more firewood before
it becomes soggier with morning snow.
I see no reason to disembark the sofa.
Horizontal before the fireplace,
I offer you a quilt that needs no tinder —
but your posture is stern and straight.
Rising, I moan like only I can, still unconvinced.
Children sled outside, asphalt’s black spine
revealed with each pass, down the block where
we sometimes stroll comfortable evenings,
or other everyday occasions when we leave,
yet return. Warm in a wool scarf I gave you,
you emerge smiling, extending leather gloves
to fend off spiders and splinters, and seize
some oak, encouraging me to hurry inside.
— Sam Barbee
from That Rain We Needed
