a little fire
in September
in our woodstove
enkindles
installed last winter, our little woodstove does the work our furnace refused—heating one level living space with no concern for the middle east or dinosaurs or utility bills; chopping logs for kindling, warming together on a sheepskin in front of a black iron box
courage
in ourselves
inner to outer
creating
the hole in the ceiling was daunting enough, insulation drifting into the dining room, crawling between rafters and beams, nails and dust; a hole in the roof, a hole where the light shone down, beam me up Scotty, two hands and a sawsall, feeling better than Louis Armstrong at the top of his solo at the end of the night, light to light, sparks
unobtrusive seed
in autumn
intones
explodes
the object of nurture returning the gesture, a thousand years of abuse redeemed by open hearts bypassing the hubbub distracting from the peaches ripe on the tree two doors down, mulberries at the park, raspberries at home; handful of damp, crumbly earth writhing with transformative powers, mineral to vegetable, blossoms to fire
golden reflections
in heart shaped
intricacies
her
oasis visions in suburban asphalt, woodsmoke smell revising papers, shredding drafts, another word for breeze through open windows, poems in the basket because they needed company, breathing oxygen onto flames, gripping the handlebars as the bicycle careens downhill, wind and
lights dim,
in darkness until moonlight confesses she’s
in love
with the sun