Remember How to Build a Fire?

The wood is damp from a wet summer and a wet fall.

The weevils scurry in prehistoric directions

as I select one log over another.

A drier piece of oak over the section of maple

that has already gone soft.

Building a fire is like building a memory,

several childhoods ago,

a little cottage by the bluff,

a cat that tipped over forgotten glasses of water,

and a dog that wore socks.

There was a feral rooster that liked to perch

outside the bedroom window.

All the cast iron rusted,

because I didn’t know better,

and all my dishes came from the Fingerhut catalog.

I had scars on my wrists from the hungry hot mouth of the stove.

I did not know then,

how long scars can last,

that one might wear them into old age,

and that one could be bothered to don the fire gloves

for such routine things.

The season has turned a corner,

and the air is crisp and ripe,

ready to be plucked from the church yard

and tasted like a pomegranate.

Delightful temptation,

every day

is another reason to keep on living.

Pain is relative,

and eventually is muted.

Nerves resemble dirty roads

that have been patched and repaired

so many times over the years.

It won’t be long now.

Or maybe it will be a long time.

The metal ticks with the warmth

growing within.

This morning’s reservoir.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog