Swinging the iron crane back across the hearth,
Shovel digging deep,
Wrapping liberated tendrils of smoke in a rolling embrace,
Beneath the bed
Of charcoal scorned memories,
A single glowing ember remains,
Red heartbeat, used to birth fire
From wood shavings and kindling,
A fragile and volatile nest,
Carried like a babe in aching arms.
From the wood shed covered in hops vines,
Flowers for a tonic to soothe the heartbreak of lost youth.
Wind moaning through the eves,
Rattling iron latches, blowing open the door to the fading garden.
Plow horse gazing out over the quaking skeletons of corn,
Strikes a hoof against stone –
Flint and steel.
Defiantly throwing his head back snickering, prancing circles,
As if to say, “Like the constellations, all things come back around my dear.
You simply have to know where to look.”
Photo: Hops flowers from my garden
Photo: Hearth Kent Plantation House by Billy Hathorn