Fire-Tender

The soft line of her mouth underscored my mornings,

the first creak of her step into my doorway enough

to jolt my mind from far away lands filled with lives
too lovely, too dangerous to consider when awake,

lest hope take hold. I imagined those rare night terrors
that flung her flying down the stairway were beautifully

freeing. Carefully constructed resolve broke in her sleep,
walls she never let fall, steely scaffolding splintering when

consciousness split layers. Winters, when electricity failed
in our converted-barn-house, as darkness seeped from corners

she slumped next to her pile of five before the fire, tending
to us all. She found ways to hide warmth in the worn and rough

wooden beams, storing laughter in jars on shelves among
the mousetraps. Her fingers splayed on my scalp, combing

the tangles from my mind. I never noticed the moment my
breathing slowed, until I drifted again on tides of dream-comfort.