The fire sputters a gentle songin early evening darkness,
turns and falls into itself.
There will be rain tomorrowbut tonight another split log
yields to the lick of flame,
throws shadow and light
into this late April evening.
We laugh, pass the bottle,tell another story
so true it’s hard to believe.
We hum our own lullabiesto the glowing coals that
arouse the still cool ground,
warms our hands and
memories of other evenings.
Later we lie down alone,dream of touchable skin,
that could kindle into flame,
blaze our own incandescent light
across all is left of our time.