Leaving Well Enough Alone

 
 

The open fire is small and contained,

inviting a close chair, a pipe

and a glass of wine,

 

the flames casual and hypnotic,

an orange glow in the timber cellar,

throbbing, making the wood

crackle and hiss, a faint whistle

from inside the grain.

 

I’m grateful for this slight breeze north

that leans the smoke back; and I don’t know

how long I’ve been staring into

my tiny arson.

 

Then with an iron tool and gloved hand

I poke the embers, maneuver the kindling, and

adjust the planks though they are ripe

right where they are.

 

Why is it so hard to just

let a really good fire be?

 

--rLp--