After several seasons lost in the Om zone it is time to return to work, and I shall start with a poem that suggests the silence of my normal winter day.
The Fire Is All There Is
tending the fire is all that there is in the world
a boistrous band of crows call to each other
hunting down the ridge
the fridged morning breeze sends the smoke swirling through the snowclad bare trees
oak twigs pop in promise
the yellow flames snap like some searing fluid whip
and tending the fire
is the only thing there is in the world
