Extinguished

each year they nest behind the wall,

demands of their children echo

from the brick amphitheater.

robins - we know - we once found one

when I went to heat the kettle,

bumping around in confusion.

the dog cornered him with her nose,

the implications of his scent

filling her lungs, filling her mind.

after we had pulled her away

I let him go out the back door,

serious judgment in his eyes

his stern request to close the flue.

-

each March I would wait for my cue,

ready in anticipation

behind tall Victorian windows,

her dad on cross country skis.

I would join him on their front porch

to kick the snow off our boots.

after the last coldest slickest

breathless flying slide down Meade Street

the iron wood-stove would call us in,

enthusiastic and crackling

like the oil in the popcorn pan.

mugs of hot honey lemonade,

preemptive mom-measures waiting

to warm our chill from the inside.

-

I used to dream of the whole town

burning with a strange dim orange

below the dark dome of heaven,

our old house standing tall, unscathed.

I looked down to see the people

plodding their way into the hills,

webs of tired evacuation,

no panicked urgency - just grief.

I could not escape to join them.

-

my parents tried to ease my fears

carefully choreographing

practicing emergency steps

removing school obligations

of touring shiny red engines,

meeting strong fighters and their chief

who wore his mustache waxed and curled.

my practical mind was not phased

by charred possessions, falling ash.

I wanted the sting in my nose,

remains of loss warming my skin,

my pounding steps wait for me! please!

but I have no voice in my dreams.

-

with our shared past of hot cast iron

or circles of coal-roasted stones,

my friend now sends us photographs,

her Panamanian husband

in Montana snow with wool socks

knitted to provide cozy feet.

but here, rain falls more than snow does,

here in this low-slung ranch-style red,

white double-hungs under deep soffits

and no matter what we might try

that one gutter still overflows

in heavy beaded curtains that

clack loudly against the front walk.

-

I contemplate some unusual

and creative installation

to obscure cobwebbed brickwork of

the mausoleum long unused,

ashes of lost flames, lost comforts,

but still home for chimney robins

who no longer use the back door.