The brick trickles down the fireplace.
Smoke stains the walls and floors with soot.
Logs,
Burn bright-white with red-edged embers.
Flames,
Dance a mystic ballet of passion transcending,
Time,

Footsteps in the grey snow,
trail of cigarette ash like bread crumbs,
dark flecks of embers, melted,
embedded into the frozen crystals
should we need to find our way back

An aspheric candle,
half melted,
on the windowsill
in my tower room,
a tall flame
holding shape
then flickering with the draft,
this house is old,
this glass container

We stood heavy like boulders in a mist,
glaring with dew and ancient fog,
on the broken floor of a woods in some wild,
we rolled like boulders thrown over a cliff,

We were soft in our existence
in sleep and soft breaths
and quite tremblings of fingers
our feet tired our soles
worn to the way we step;
you a little older now