It is chilly, the air smells delicious,
Sitting on the hard, wooden chair in front of the cold, wood stove.
The smell of yesterdays’ fire is a remembrance of the poem it was.
Weaving strips of newspaper, some are crumpled into balls,
I add kindling, designing a piece of art no one else will see.
Large pieces of soft fur come next. Then hard almond.
As I kindle this fire, I pray for an easy one, nothing dramatic, not smokey, just warmth.
I pray for the light and a gentle crackle.
My soot hands are the remembrance of today’s poem.
The fire begins to speak the language I learned when I was living on the land. 19 years old.
Crackles, and splats, the whoosh of the wind in the chimney. Sparks that sing.
I feel more than the heat.
Can you taste the remembrance of my ancestors’ poems as they wrote, sitting near the fire
As they prayed for their children?
Little did they know I would join them on this chilly day,
With my fire poem, praying for their healing and freedom.