A winter’s wind to catch me in my thought
and keep my heart from melting down; I watch
the chiminea’s flames consume the wood
from Santa Fe, and wonder if a match
from Texas could ignite a blaze so hot
that all our earthly faiths in saints would catch –
A cold creeps over me; the flame’s gone out.
I blow into the ash, and eye its rise.
Tongues of gold appear, lick once, go out;
the smoke that billows forth a blaze belies.
My lungs fill up with hope; my heart, with doubt.
I empty both, and hear the flame’s reprise.
Whatever love pulls wind within this shell
fills up the heart, and leaves no fuel for hell.
|
