this is the poem where she builds a fire

 

this is the poem where she builds a fire

without matches

you know the ones

she seeks sparks

winter all a-glitter

oh it's a cold wide way

everything wet as wood

time goes flip flap

hours saved for dawn instead
of dark as dinner

crumpled papers find

this smell of trees

aflame

sometimes stones
palm-sized pebbles
mediums for psychics

rocks so hard they block

the wind the plan the pain

the builder must be somewhat of a

magician, elements shifting at her

orchestral fingers and whispers

reasoning and averaging

more air more breath more burning

this is an escape fire

there went the ice

these are the absolutes

inhale

the universe is written in

smoke retreating to its source

she, alone, the clearing

with leaves with frost with refusal

the sorrows glow

from heat to ash

what is burned will be born

this she holds with open hands

11.24.12