Sunday, March 23, 2008
Your fire awakened a thousand moments,
I was walking, cold. Hugging myself
While you sat back, and relaxed in your
Created warmth, oblivious.
The chimney puffing.
There is a smell of March-burnt log that
Summons a raft of living ghosts, while
Dead oarsmen paddle the swirled eddies.
The upward cinders in my mind.
So that I stop and ask them each a
What makes you significant tonight,
What brings you here, to me?
There is nothing important in me,
One by one, they answer.
But each, landing on another as gravity
Draws even the spark,
Remind me that all I have ever
Thought of as warm, involves
The friction of knowing
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008