I’ve noticed that in winter, pieces of outside come in –

willing contraband in mourning arms.

There are rocks on the kitchen windowsill,

fossils in the bookcase,

a bulky basket of cord wood hunkered at the hearth,

and a tall twig standing sentinel in a corner of the dining room.

There is a piece of bark tucked behind the weft in my weaving

and a clam shell full of translucent sea discs on the dresser shelf.

Nearly every jacket in the closet has a rock in its pocket.

A fist full of craggy eucalyptus – remnant from a fall arrangement – stretches from a vase on the kitchen table,

and seedy thistle stalks poke from a jug on the wood box.

Winter is not a favored season but

it’s not so much the weather,

it’s that walls are so necessary then.

Come spring and summer – when confines disappear and outside floats in again

on its own breezy merit

through open windows and doors

to soothe the eyes as a vase of flowers

or drift toward ears as cicada choruses

or tease the nose as fresh cut grass,

well then

there is no want for outside in.

We’ll be inside out.