We’ve been iced in for three days
when the sun finally peeps out,
at first shyly, then with unkempt glee,
tossing bright rays off the ice and snow,
protons and waves sparkling on our
eager eyelids, dazzling to see.
Logs yet unhauled, the stove awaiting
its daily task, but first things first.
Coffee perked, steaming in the mug,
selecting carefully, wanting just the
right tunes, my hand drifts past Bill Monroe,
Tim O’Brien, and Dave Grisman, finally
settling on Sam Bush. Soon the strings
are singing from the speakers like
an old friend dropping by, concerned
for our well-being, bringing a bit of
minstrelsy on this frigid morn.
The stove is lit, eight strings and fire
the kind of dose that makes it warm.
