"The Fire."
Strapped on my snowshoes and set off.
Across the lake making beaver tails,
through the woods on the other side and up the hill,
to look back through the snow to where I began.
Then returned to split wood.
Fed the fire and set off, again making
tracks in the field to follow where
I choose while the fire burned.
Returned to the fire and watched the hypnotic coals,
the sibilant flame.
Watched the snow through the windows.
Watched the lines in my hand, the lifeline bisecting my palm.
The girl who told me it was ominous.
Rewrite an old magazine.
Listen to the radio, and live through old photos.
Saw a different me five years ago,
a stranger with a pallid face.
Picked on the guitar and tried to sing,
felt a strange laughter in the floor creaking under my feet.
Thought of the migration of birds and the family of wolves,
the songs of whales, matrix of the sea.
Tried to write, tried to read.
Fed the fire again, and walked out
in the snow and coming night.
How stark the presence of trees, the black air.
The snow on my face, how close and cold the sleep.
I walk into what I know, but can't see.