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Tiny House by Mary Jane Leith February 21, 2007 Bounding home Workworn, starving Passing the bent stop sign That a tree limb dented Two summers ago During the storm That brought fear Of tornadoes and sirens Ahead the houses are lit With bright kitchen lights And the blue glow of television Mine is still dark Juggling keys, gloves Throwing open the front door And taking in the warmth of home And the subtle smell of steaks We cooked two nights ago Lights ablaze Eight, nine lamps burning Adding warmth To this tiny house, our jewel box The first thing we own That neither of us Could afford by ourselves In the kitchen, a heavy pot will soon Be boiling with a thick, meaty soup To stave off the winter freeze That weighs on the trees And chaps our hands And makes us never want to leave The quiet protection Of this jewel box house About the author: I'm a native of Michigan, married to an Iowan, and we have lived in Georgia for almost seven years. It must be true that the blood thins in the South, because even 32-degree days can seem bitterly cold. Fortunately, frequent trips to Iowa in the winter months to visit family harden our roots and refresh our spirits and remind us what the biting prairie wind feels like. Nestling in for an evening at home is the constant highlight of my days. A hearty dinner and a warm blanket are all a person needs to make it through the frigid January days. | | | |
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