A very well written poem. I can almost feel the heat.
Nocturne with Flame
Not imposition, but welcome.
Another’s stirred embers, banked
and forming the kindling’s base.
Thus the licked paper curling with smoke,
stars shooting into the blackness,
and finally, exploding light
transformed to heat.
From one’s loss, another’s gain.
The flickering on my cheek.
Inhaled bitterness and memory.
The wait, the period before.
Like the owl in the live oak,
or the mice under our floor
returning, I celebrate the cycle,
and grow warm.