Part of the bedtime ritual for me, in winter,
is to go out and get a couple of big chunks
to set on the hearth to dry out well,
tomorrow night’s bedtime logs, all-nighters,
or at least far into it,
for the fire to transform
to ashes by morning.
Tonight I forgot, so there I was
comfortable in bed in my non-existent pajamas,
and I remembered that I’d forgotten,
and I thought about how cold it was out there
in the silent night, below zero,
out on the porch where the wood rack sits.
But I decided to do it, get up and walk out
(I have no bathrobe),
and I grabbed two thick logs
and knocked off the powder of snow
that had blown in under the porch roof,
and I stood there naked and barefoot
on the snowy deck, whoo!—
and carried them inside.
It was a good idea, really cold, dark, and brief.