Fires

there are fires that smoulder
in the recesses of my passion
where a little kindle goes far

a walk moulded in stride
just three steps ahead
a smile in a silent hallway
and the way her hair curls
behind her ear
spark Dante sunsets

the smell of another's
Sunday grill, as a screen door slams
her comb, layed upon the dresser
where the sunlight catches
each strand
and grass freshly cut
pasted to my sneaker
are the damper wide open
in December's hearth

the sounds
of a lake shore lapping the sand
in glitter moonlight
while children giggle
the distant shore

a church bell across town
sweeping the empty streets
and the swish of snowshoes
on snow
too virgin for sleds
are the driftwood burn
that glow the trees
into nameless shadows

these fires
do more than remember,
more than warm
they garner yesterdays
into gifts for tomorrow