The Snapping Breeze

Whilst teaching wilderness skills in New England, I wrote this simple poem. It was 20 degrees out, and the kids were tasked with making their own campfires. In the cold, as I sat by the communal fire we had all made, I wrote this:

When twigs and leaves

with snapping breeze

are rushed into the flame,

we warm ourselves

by the fire’s cells

by the living ember’s mane

 

When rus’ling trees

like jangling keys

are thrust this way and that,

we open doors

when fire pours

into our waiting laps

 

Not the flames themselves,

just the essence held

by that once snapping breeze

We help ourselves

when off the shelf

we dust our fire keys

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