I breathe in this morning air,

inside this house.

From the outside, this house is pale yellow

and dwells among the last few leaves of autumn.

Lavished with gold and orange and occasionally a deep scarlet,

this little house sits here with pale yellow walls holding it in place.

Inside this house, three small dogs sit beside me on a large red leather sofa.

I speak into my phone to record these thoughts at this moment—8:48 a.m.

I’m 71.

I feel soft.

This skin holds me together,

inside some bones are breaking down from overuse.

Too much firewood for the outdoor kitchen.

Hurrying hurrying hurrying to stoke the fire

under the plastic roof

while the soup simmers on the wood-burning stove,

the children waiting for me in the cabin.

The southwest Pacific storm blows around me and my rain gear.

Water licks my face, but I’m not cold.

The wild wind bends the eighty-foot trees.

The tipi squats down like an old woman and snaps up in the gusts.

I nuzzle the cheeks of my children and hold my youngest close to my chest.

Even now in this little yellow house with a wonderful furnace and a beautiful coffee maker,

I still feel my wet face nosing at my children;

I still smell their baby necks—milky and warm.

I’m still the mama bear nuzzling at her cubs.

Those storms made my love elemental;

now they growl like primitive memories inside this sweet little yellow house.

Now, instead of the Pacific rain pouring onto the ridge,

there are only New England tears washing down my cheeks.