Smoke drifts away from me
luckily
this morning by the fire
where comrades speak
in mumbles
dry are we beneath the oak
(which whispers)
with coffee ‘twixt the hands
we smile the same
sit the same
orient ourselves incline the same
imagine alike and dream align
like geese ending their Summer too
that cold won’t bite
my thirst egal
not now as long
as in circle I am brought
fingertips blackened
to find some more
so cast into flame
bend like the grate
for support and protection
these words of stillness and light
for light is the task – deceptively simple
of loving the world
as a slug loves the juice
in spite of its shell