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.