Jenny

The wind blows and howls,
Causes creaks and strains,
Pushes the porch swing along.
The fire crackles and warms
The old, cold room;
But you wouldn’t know.
I can hear the sounds
Whistling in the air.
Jenny over there, long gone.
Yesterdays linger,
Like campfire smoke
In an old, flannel shirt.
Just as she wakes,
I hear the hinges squeak.
The cold air rushes in
As the door swings wide.
Don’t mistake the harsh winds
For friends arriving at late hours.
Both may push their way in,
And are just as likely
To bring a chill in the air.
But you can close one out,
The other is sleeping on the couch;
Waking now, pushy as ever.
She’ll make breakfast, though.
Eggs fried in lard and bacon grease.
The sizzle and my shirt,
The sight and sound of morning.
Cold nights, warm dreams,
and look what the wind blew in.

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