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--
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