First Winter

A father's thoughts on a winter night

First Winter

That first winter
when the pipes froze
and river water,
warmer than the air,
rolled solemn, creeping fog
across the frigid bridge
at forty-two below,
we brought our sleeping babies
bundled to the parlor
and lay them side by side
on makeshift quilted beds
a toasty, prudent distance
from the woodstove,
where, warmed by crackling maple,
they shunned the winter wind
that brought some hapless others
death that very night,
and I fed a greedy watch fire
(while she, snuggling with them, slept)
and pushed away the grasping frost--
a blizzard-bitter hand
that once before held mine
another long and lonely,
shuddery winter night.