(write best)

I write best
in winter
when the Earth
is quiet
and I feel justified
to stay at home

when I forget
what is out there
that thinks
it is more important.

All day I am home
in silence
which is unusual
though it feels
like how life
has always been
and I do not imagine
that I should be
somewhere else
or doing other
than what I am.

Summer denies
somehow it does not
look right
with a tan

the way someone
I was always
so serious
as a child
implying seriousness
and childhood
do not mix

but who is
the bed fellow
of seriousness,
a December fire
does not seem
to mind her
awfully much,
nor the rocking chair
nor the short days nor for that matter
the season’s first daisies
in the galvanized can.