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Fostering Sparks on Windowsills

By John Reinhart From Issue No. 3

a little fire
in September
in our woodstove

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

in ourselves
inner to outer

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

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

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

About John Reinhart More From Issue No. 3