Snowed In

Several hours were required last night
for getting home from work, dodging cars
that drifted from their lanes to left and right.

I rise up early to wrap on frozen shoes
and try the country pavement for a sign
of whether weather must be paid its dues.

It must; icicles hang in soundless ranks
along the eaves, and snow has drifted in
our road, its ditches and its banks.

Retiring to the house, I build two flames,
one in the stove to dry the boys and girl
on their return from raucus winter games,

the other on the hearth to use up wood
that came home after the old saw died,
too lengthy to be offered as it should

to that efficient stove with whirring fan.
But I love this fire best, and like to sit
with unshod feet on bricks, and scan

Frost or Housman here by lantern glow.
Both are out of fashion, but their lines
betray some knowledge of the things I know.