The Kindling

Jan Richardson

Jan Richardson

I pile the kindling
the words heart`split
there where they are dry
Stack the splinters on paper
in a way that will catch flame
suck air from the damp wood
set the white smoke to swirl
in your stale airless space
with the healing scent
of smoldering cedar
a crackling prayer

But the match is wet
If I strike it it but melts
like a snow`flake on water
It crumbles like damp earth
tumbling from the tree`root
torn angrily out of the ground
I strike my steel on the stone
The spark is a shooting star
skipping off into darkness
Candle without any wick
Song without a singer

“For my days pass away like smoke,
   and my bones burn like a furnace.
My heart is stricken and withered like grass;
   I am too wasted to eat my bread.
Because of my loud groaning
   my bones cling to my skin.
I am like an owl of the wilderness,
   like a little owl of the waste places.” ~ Psalm 102:3-6


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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3 Responses to The Kindling

  1. telling… By the way, speaking of telling, can you tell me if you have seen my blog in your reader lately, as all of a sudden my followers seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth – almost as though my blog is just no longer there…


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