Fire –
costume of lovers
worn to parties
and in the springtime –
blue licking orange savoring red.
A circle of hunger
soon depleted.
Ash dissolved in wind.
I’d rather have a glacier –
the patience of clear mass
advancing a weight of centuries,
raising rock from earth’s body,
shaping a house open to sky.
From its battered ledges, we’d watch
beavers weave easy circles
in a swelling pond.