In Grandpa’s Lodge

We watch the pot-belly stove

belch hot breaths to the rafters

in grey clouds, coating the

cabin’s bowels in a soot-sticky

film. I eye the pile of blizzard-

split tinder, recall the tall tree

you tumbled with the swoop

of a muscled arm. The mittens

you wore warm in the corner,

spill a melted pool that holds

your hand’s secrets. You puff

a branch of pipe like a smoke-

stack, whistling an old song.