It is painstaking to gather the wood.
Axe to lumber, a full day’s labor.
Arrange the logs, meticulous in nature.
Light the match, ignite the fire as best we could.
Nurse the flames, maybe higher than we should.
Just to bask in the embers that were
fanning us on in this never-ending pattern.
Douse the blaze; our need for warmth withstood.
What unfair trick of fate to condemn us to
this cycle. To only spark on the weekend.
A fleeting caress, a burn from your flame,
help me board the plane with ashes in your eyes . . .
Nevertheless, I will wait here. Match in hand.