Monday, November 8, 2010

Fundament of Place: Fire

Stove fire is a fundament of their place
and they treat it as it exists outside of prayer.
The equinox light has time; finshed
John's relations with hard-starved fields
cold and gray, damp and fallowed.
The new November moon in its place named
for John's radished hips, Sara's winsome plaits.

John spans the gatepost door and
slippers slump-tired from shaping line posts.
He smells like sap resin, old pine smoke
and damp wool. Sara fingers the salt
and shifts her weight to the stove door.
She has prayed all day as if to say
"I love him me some." Left foot walking
"Jesus." Right foot walking "Mercy."

He has worked at wordless things all day.
Blemish and rot has not yet defiled our land. 
Her cisterns are full of fresh water, the turn 
of the white hand is ready. She will satisfy herself
with honey from the comb, their marriage
bed is not far -- reaching into their table's grace.

Insides of slapped cinder wood, the coal-tipped poker,
the soft explosions and mushroom blooms
of resin layered saps and epigrammatic sparks. 

Sara smiles with plates of roasted
venison, loose floured hair, beaded
important breasts, leavened to be
the warp and weft of a busy examin.
What does it mean to love the
material at hand, the worthiness
unacknowledged except with kisses,
calming winds, and falling into grace,
and cold baptism of gifted meats,

The promises hidden and unhidden
in the yeasty meats of love, the
resting before the planting, the
stovewood prayers of expected joy.

Sara suppers the stove, and John drinks his 
tired dreams: "Can this damp wood fuel
maintain the heat to burn?"

No comments: