The wood damp from the first frost

That falls apart like very old lace

As I carry three logs in to the hearth

Seven months cold, ashy andirons

Leaning against the sooty stones

Since April and the last fire's leavings.

And all evening the smoke spilling

Over the roof and down to the pines.

There is a redolent musk of pine pitch,

The patient wary ghost of a gray wolf

Padding carefully through the trees,

Fur a moonlit glimmer and catching

Here and there on the sere needles,

Until satisfied there is no danger

It settles and curls around the house.