The Ellis Loves The Hearth
The last leaves let go on Dubois Street
and nobody tries to stop them.
The river goes slate gray by four o’clock,
and the ridge across the water puts its gold away.
Pull your collar up.
The wind comes off the Hudson with something to say.
It says it to the windows,
and the windows hum it back.
We keep a light on.
We always do.
One amber square in the early dark,
the door unlatched for whoever’s walking by.
Come in out of it.
Shake the cold from your sleeves.
Somebody saved you a seat near the speakers.
Somebody’s pouring something warm.
Somebody you haven’t met yet
is about to learn your name.
Listen.
Lower.
Slower.
Warmer.
Feel it?
A kick drum.
A heartbeat.
The floor holds all of us at once,
breath fogging the glass,
coats piled high on a single chair.
Outside, the year is getting quiet.
Let it.
In here we gather what’s left of the light
and pass it hand to hand.
The snow will come when it comes.
Until then, we stay close and keep the music on.