Monday, January 24, 2011

The Incline (1.24.11)

As the wind blows out,
the last of the candles
on cake long cold.
It stirs some coals
elsewhere on the prairie.
The father
of some traveling family
thanks their God.
More broken branches
for fuel arrive.
In little arms
that make his grown eyes cry.
He takes each bundle
with a kiss on the head
and purposely takes
the smallest portion of bread.
Some cake has gone cold,
but this fire is warm.

1 comment:

Galyn said...

Remnds me of the handcart pioneer stories I've read.