for such things.
You see large tracks of land,
while narrowly,
I see
the splintered brush and twigs
strewn within.
It is as though
frozen lips beg me
to build fires of sticks
too little to kindle
a tiny flame.
My heart urges
for a great conflagration,
and without even
a touch
of heat
grows cold from the inside out.
Opening vision wide,
letting go,
I know
I must do best
with brush and stick,
and when all us used up,
move on to new forests;
a new warmth.
