For Thirty-Seven Years

Fallen branches tied
in a bundle bouncing on my shoulder
and drifting road

to horizon. They’re collected words
for the fireplace. For the times
we discuss the direction

we’re travelling. For the coal chute
accepting coal and keeping
us warm through winters.

It’s the silences which are frigid
Baffin Island in January. Cod navigating
icebergs bouncing off the shells

of negotiations concerning
the kitchen sink. The colour of
the walls between the front door and the back.

The place we’ll go this winter
to escape the cold. Perceptions concerning
the aesthetics of our children.

It has never been a question
of the fire between your lips
and mine. The point where we

said we would. Where we believed.
It has lately been a question
of how high to turn the heat.