Winter

Only one flame in the sub temperature of this room
burns, as it feels to us-
this Midwestern loft, with shadows
with warmth from the shallow front hall
its floor heater clicking like locust.
Whisper and brush, the pat of rain.
Past the wooden deck, the city hibernates
puffs like a tired train.
Sleet pelts just outside the chimney stack.
The longer we listen, the more it quivers.