It’s late.
Or is it?
The chair is cold,
The fire resists my coaxing.
Go.
Get a blanket.
Return.
The fire surges upon my re-arrival.
It welcomes
my arrival,
Find a pillow,
a cushion
a sanctuary
In a place just steps away.
The fire is perfect.
My bed is not.
The air is perfect
The cicadas make sweet love sounds.
The sky is perfect
The stars make sweet love light
To me.
How can I leave?
How can I stay?
All around me
my life
waits to be lit
by Love.