At the Fire Pit

At the Fire Pit

A maple leaf floats unmoving 

in a rain-diluted Mason jar of beer, 

frozen in amber. You sat over there, 

the blue camp chair cradling 

a puddle in the divot you left. 

Beneath twig ends and singed 

flakes of bark the ash is a thick 

gray paste. Not long back there was 

flame here, heat, sweet scent 

of pine-laced flannel. We watched 

tree-thoughts flutter from limb

to limb, knew the conversation 

was too big for us and were fine 

in the silence. Now, the brittle sticks

leaned in a brittle teepee, even

the possibility of such warmth

demands more than all 

of my paper, all of my breath.