The Quiet Threshold

The fire crackles softly,

more ember than flame now.

I watch as the smoke curls low,

flattening under the damp scent of spruce and leaf rot.

The cord between my knitting needles stiffens,

the air cooling around a sweater meant to warm;

plastic turns to wire,

and the yarn drags slower through chilled fingers.

-

I pull the next loop,

watch as it blooms into the warmth of a sleeve.

Each stitch clacking in a quiet, repetitive heartbeat,

steady as the air around me stills.

Even the wind has lowered her voice.

It moves the branches like it's afraid

to wake something sleeping in the sky.

-

When the first flake lands,

it is almost nothing:

a momentary shimmer gleaming toward my teacup,

gone before I could name it.

Then another, and another,

each one navigating the path

between the glow of the fire and the dark.

The air has changed its perfume,

the faint metallic edge,

the clean taste sitting beneath the wood smoke.

-

The snow isn't falling:

It drifts,

slow as an elderly thought,

hesitant as if the earth itself

isn't ready to rest.

The fire pops,

a flake hissing on the coals.

For a moment,

the silence has a body,

blocking the sound of crows and tires,

or the rustle of dry grass.

Only the fire is breathing,

and me, breathing with it as the yarn sighs.

-

I shift my feet,

the leaves beneath them surrender

just one last brittle crunch.

Silence again.

The first blanket of white thinly covers the orange and brown,

and the yard becomes softer.

I sit a while longer,

until the snow gathers in the folds of my sweater,

until the chill reaches the edge of my tea,

until the needles slow,

until the fire starts to lose its light -

And I know,

its time to go inside.

-

When I stand,

gathering the chilled warm waiting in my yarn,

the fire spits its final spark at my back

and I walk through the threshold

of the year's first snow.