Mother’s Hearth

Dying Embers, A Stettin, Flickr

After we have done deals,
you bring you, here’s me
and we will call it ours
as we gather again,
like firewood in Mother’s hearth.

And, as our rough edges kiss,
sparking hot conversations
about ghosts of moons gone,
the fruit is a fire that cooks
our spirit for the moon to come.

And, after we have downed meals,
wood depart, fire gasps for breath,
but with puffed cheeks, we blow
kisses from faraway lands
to keep embers breathing
till you bring you, and I me,
as we gather again,
like firewood in Mother’s hearth.