Getting used to something
I’ve gotten used to the sounds
deep in a winter night,
the loud crack of ice from the brook,
a sharp ping of the wood stove
reaching some new temperature,
muffled tumbles of a smoldering log,
the creak of floorboards
as if someone walked quietly.
Downstairs the refrigerator motor hums,
the water heater readjusts.
What is shifting inside this house with me,
I wonder, content, then roll back to sleep.
The snow loosens its grip on the roof
slides with a grand whoosh,
louder than any wild animal outside.