The Winter Line

A moth is batting frantically against the painted wood,

trying for the sliver where the light is bleeding through.

I’m standing in the hallway where I’ve always quietly stood,

watching how the cedar door has warped and pulled askew.

A thin and vertical line of winter air hits at my shins,

a cold and steady reminder of the world outside the hall.

It’s where the safety of the house dissolves and then begins

the slow and steady leaking of the heat against the wall.

I could shove a towel in the space to keep the weather out,

or hammer down a weatherstrip to make the seal go tight.

But I just watch the opening and feed a growing doubt

about which side of the threshold is the one that has the light.