The temperature

dropped below freezing today

and I started a mighty fire

in the blackened woodstove.

The chatter of logs

gave way to heat

just as warm as

a gathering of old women

sharing wisdom,

swapping secrets,

pulling me into

their pillowy chests

for a morning hello.

I reside in this moment,

uncaring of all

the next ones to follow.

Fire has a way

of prompting us to stay,

attending it even as

our thoughts are pulled

toward crisp images

of recent or forgone past.

Fire does for me

what breath might do

for the meditator;

what prayer might do

for the monk;

what repetition might do

for the artist.

No answers come; yet,

a stillness ensues.