—with reverence for Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight”
A fire, much like the one that Coleridge nursed,
leaps muttering toward the flue; flames lick one log
in front, as his flames did. The room, no worse
for lulling me into a winter fog,
is deep in thought; I doze a little. Spring
remains aloof from any hint of pleasure:
the wind, as cold and strong as January’s,
mocks the happy lisp of glowing coals.
The room is warm. The windows darken still.
Fire complements the incandescent light
I need to fuse the moment into lines.
It will end, the fire; its light will turn to day.
This poem remains the only memory
of a quiet night I had just this to say.
Donald Wheelock has written formal poetry for decades. Recent attempts to publish it have proved successful, which he finds gratifying after a long career as a composer and college teacher.