Winter Fire

It’s eighty-five in here.
My father
lit a fire in the new fireplace.
The tea’s gone cold.
The dog’s run off.
Everyone around me is smiling together
and rattling ice cubes in high-ball glasses.
I look for a safe place to stand
among these statues.
I land in front of the fire, the heat shrinking my skin.
I realize I’m older than I’ve ever been
as I watch the clock wind down
and the snow stack on the eaves.
Even the birds know when to leave.