This poem is about one of my favorite outhouses!

Early morning, the old beige door creaks,

as I twist the brass knob, slipping on heavy, felt-lined boots.

I crunch up the ice-covered snow path

to the little green privy, the paint is peeling.

The door whines as I swing it open,

my molting black and white malamute tilts her head skyward,

letting go a half-hearted howl when she hears me.

She doesn’t rise from her curled position under the bush.

Leaving the door open, I lift the handmade, sanguine lid,

slipping the notched wood handle on to hold it up.

The seat is made of the same burgundy stained wood,

the hole centered just so.

Sliding down worn black-ribbed stretch pants,

I am nestled into the hill like a black bear in hibernation.

It is a necessary moment,

bringing undisturbed solitude.

Water vapor escapes and I breathe the chill air of an undeveloped day.

Wet, clumsy flakes of snow stream out of a gray sky,

flopping onto the branches in this small universe.

One big, wet snowflake is finding autonomy,

riding horizontally, searching for a different path.

The masses try to bring it down;

vertical is the true path, they tell it,

pushing, pulling, pressure.

Longing to be altered, it strains to hold the course.

Gravity is no friend,

branches loom, catching it by surprise.

It is over and has joined them,

becoming one in a pile of wet white

on a disappearing green bough.

Loathe to emerge; I am the only witness,

the dog now dreaming of chasing gophers,

the cabin obscured by snow-laden branches.

In winter, no one is about.

It is safe to reach out, take in, and tackle thought.

(Pictures curtesy Pixaby)