THE NIGHT, INDOORS

The smell of burning wood 
from a fire pit enters through 
my balcony door, 
allowing the night indoors, 

a suburban scent absent 
in city winds, and the thickness 
of wood smoke drying the eyes 
into a heavy squint, 

glitter upon a velvet cloth, 
cotton protecting frigid skin, 
a conversation in auditory loss, 
leaves burning as fall begins, 

sitting serene, flickering, still, 
a lingering moth fighting the frost, 
and the fires will roar through my 
balcony door as a friend, 
until morning birds return 
to sing for spring, again 

Reviews

[Nebula]

Melancholic poem
The butterfly does not like the cold

[Rene Velez]

Lol. Funny you say that. I was sleep deprived when I wrote. Thsnks