Winter Coming Poem by Michael Chitwood

On the back porch
the wind slams the screen door coming in.
The first time I learned the lesson of the seasons
was a Saturday morning in 1964, in my miniature rocker,
my father coming in with red eyes, my uncle with him
because my grandfather died in the night.
The sparrow cheeps in his tree.
The fence gate bats the post.
For every winter there is something pinned on the coat
like my name and bus number
the day I went to first grade
and not to the funeral.
The empty clothesline bows out the way the wind blows.
The crow is knocked sideways.
The wood stove sucks its teeth
and the elm sings in the fire.
The sway of old electric lines
makes the lamplight billow and fade.