Ben E. Campbell
I call these flames from nothingness,
from the etchings of unadulterated air.
A match strike to wood scrap, paper,
the resin of yesteryears’ blaze—
all caught in a dance of recreation.
Outside winter marks its ethereal glaze.
I glance its deadly works through the
panes of frosted glass: the trees too
barren for bird stops, the roads
gone lost as salient trails.
On a day much like this,
in another recent life,
came the severance of a bond.
Nothing quite so cold it seems
as a love lost in winter.
Chill-taken, I bend towards the flame.
From the dark, unfolding house
comes a warm familiar voice.
“Tend it right,” I say aloud,
and stoke the fickle coals.