Our grandsons were here, together and warm in their grandmother’s chair, talking about football. I went out for a walk after supper. It was cold, but not too: twenty-nine degrees; still, but not blue: the breath of a breeze. The stars were out. The Big Dipper was standing on its end: pirouette. No one was out: no cat, nor dog, no cleared throat. Bare trees: ghosts: roses: smoke: fir is my guess: sweet resin: the sound of an ax: a laugh, a groan, a porch full of wood. My mother bought the chair many years ago from the neighbor next door. Fabric: not leather, not down: rocker: recliner. A pot on the stove, and all that is good. And all is good. There is no longer a meaning for evil: no dictionary but love. Use your blind finger: there, on the first page, between reason and rhyme, is the definition of home: a baby is born: she reaches out, touches her very first wonder.