No Banking of Fires
You have not been stacking wood for the winter,
more like just tossing in an unruly pile,
not worrying near enough
of how to parcel out the warmth as the air turned cold.
Having survived winters without fire, more
than a few of them, the niggly rationing of heat
is no longer your style. You know the difference
between survival and glory
and light a match to the whole thing. Now.
All at once. A bonfire they will remember
long after you are gone, your old bones dancing
with more grace than anyone would have imagined,
the sound of joyous singing echoing in the night.
About this poem
I have decided me and my muse are on completely different pages these days. I start a poem about “X” and it ends up about “B”.
Rule number one for poets. Always trust your muse more than yourself. They know things.