Red ringed arms of leather
fail under the hot ring,
wax and feathers

weaken under the low-draft.
You're a shot bird, a soft hit
falling akimbo down to

the green wash, to the salty
glass of impact, a slip through clouds
for a mouth full of tide.

October's--First Fire

The dark comes early now
...comes in on the wind
with defeated day

Old Jacket
goes out for an armful
the fire wood again
for firewood, firewood
the firewood again

This comfortable routine
like well-worn ***

Scraping ash into pan
Wetting and rubbing the window clean
Nesting the kindling
Setting the smaller
and the waiting logs
Striking a match
to the tinder
to tender the flame

Settling back
flushed
with the warmth of wine
purring cat on lap and
...the firewood...the firewood
the firewood again