Not Yet Ready

Coals in the fire pit.
No longer a raging flame,
not yet black, dried or dead,
Wicked hot. The decision point at hand.
More wood?
or let the light fade into the night?

Predictable as spring,
you reach for the scraps of lumber,
set aside for this very purpose.
Not yet ready for night.

About this poem

No great secret about this one. When times are hard; when we feel old and tired; when we feel beat and worn, we decide what hope we have, or don’t. We can only linger in the coals so long.

Hand me that log.

Tom