FALL’S FIRST FIRE
The dark before dawn calls me out of bed.
I hush slippers to not awake the sleepers
Upstairs. I must search for words to be said,
Must sift through my thoughts, looking for keepers,
But at first my mind’s blank. The room is cold,
so I go to the old wood stove to light
Fall’s first fire, watch flames of orange and gold
Crackle the kindling, but that gift’s delight
Takes time to warm the black bulk of iron
So I return to this page. Still my mind
Is blank, dark as the east is before dawn,
Yet I wait like a fisher, sure I’ll find
A morning star that will hoist hope’s uplift.
A poet’s a beggar awaiting his gift.