Fostering Flames

The compression of haiku.

Your absence of words.

A tinge of regret.

It is fireplace season and I am the tender. A happiness brews when I haul and stack wood, light fires, and foster flames.

This time of year I think of animals that must keep moving or die. My hours of nothing string end-to-end as a deadening creeps around in broad daylight. Who is restraining and why?

I still wake in the valley of night. I still walk around and ask the dog questions in the dark. I still cannot make peace without that Vermont river. That spirit that found me. That deepening. Herself.

The redbird sings and returns to his nest tucked in the rhododendron. I always thank him for staying all winter long. His song chirps about in my heart especially when I am as quiet as a fallen feather.

A church built out of wood and sunbeams. Okay, a river too. And sure, that mountainside aslant, allowing for all of life to lilt downhill towards those who sleep still.