Put On Another Log

Put On Another Log

(“And so I remind you to stir up the gift of God that is in you…” 1 Timothy 1:6)

Don’t watch me burn.
Sit by the fire and warm your hands.
Pick up a guitar.
Wink at the girl across from you.
Tap your feet in the blackened soot.
Sing the song on the top of the sky.
Repeat the words that first made you fly.
Tell the story,
please tell it again.
Tell the story we have heard a hundred times before.
Show us how you memorized it,
or how your grandfather revised it generations ago.
Point out the constellations, I can never get the right.
Big Dipper. Little Dipper. North Star. Pleiades. Obscured by the
lights from town.
Pass out the wine you found on the final excursion
to the vineyards last fall. Do you have Dandelion,
and can we share?

Put on another log, we want to stay until early morning.
The stack is at the back of the property, dried, I hope,
after winter rains.
Teach us the song we’ve forgotten, let the blues harp
take the lead. The toddlers are dancing in shadows of the flames,
the teens are hoping to kiss for the first time tonight.
It is late spring and the air is cool. There are extra
sweatshirts inside the shed. The smell of last autumn’s
smoke still clings to sleeves and hoods.
A dad in plaid is shaving sticks of their bark and
handing them to kids with hot dogs in their hands.
Later we will burn some marshmallows, the embers will glow
blue and orange,
one baby is cuddling with her head on the side of the new
black Labrador puppy.
One is nestled in Auntie’s arms, eyelids are slow semaphores
as sleep pulls him close.

The fire, we kept it fanned. We planned for a few, and more than
that
stayed quiet and late. In the morning we will wash down the night
with coffee for the handful who never went home.