Every Night My Little Song

It begins like a little song when every night I build this fire:

Crumple up the junk mail. Rip off some cardboard.

Crisscross it with kindling, small sticks first.

 

When I strike up the match it lights the second time.

Ink and meaningless words burn. Was I ready to let go of all that?

In the conflagration the weight of its nothingness lifts up in smoke.

 

Up, up and up it goes...

 

As a hot and airy spirit informs my arms and face, 

a burst of sparkling yellows entertains my eyes.

I feed the inferno griefs and sorrows

Place my anger in the wood I heave on top

 

And it consumes my little song.

 

I close the door and watch, hearing snaps and carryings on.

Agreements and disagreements moving along.

Flaming tongues twanging the cold stove. Difficult harmonies.

A maelstrom of dissonance.

 

I release a long sigh,

 

like a vocal riff against a melodic hiss.

Happy for the end of the day, I allow my forgotten dreams

to take up my little song and carry on this tune,

which lulls me off to sleep.