Burning Down the House

In winter it is all wet.
The trees burdened groundward.
Exhausted cedar boughs
reach skyward to nothing.
Clawing at the clouds
like they’ve woken up inside
a grave without a bell.

I look inward to late spring.
The marginal brightening.
A shuttered window at midnight where
there’s dancing inside
and the light trips out just around the edges.
In summer the house burns down again
and everyone gets out alive.

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