In these last gray days of December
The brightest thing in the sky
Has been a trio of contrails
Thrown across the one unclouded corner of sunset
But Heraclitis’ fire still burns
Consuming and recreating all
In this season when fields stand naked
And trees lose their memory of leaves
I think I might extinguish the last coals of that fire
Live clean and empty
Desiring, above all, nothing
But even that is a desire
And wanting has always been my mentor
Steady and passionate
Real fire fed by seasoned ash and locust
Of my own cutting
Throwing erratic shadows
From the soapstone firebox
Into the darkened room
In the only house, after all,
I ever really wanted
