Chiminea

Enchanted by flames,
even those reluctant to spread,
to make the jump from paper to wood.
I cannot walk away, cannot stop watching, trying.

Smoke swirls,
clings to my skin,
scents my hair and my clothes,
invades my imagination for examination later.

Ash, too, settles on the flyaway
wisps of my hair.
At first glance it could be snow
but it is still, for the moment,
too warm for snow.

I dreamed that night of death,
I dreamed of peace
and quiet for friends; for old, dear friends
and I dreamed of, saw again, the smoke and spirits heading for the sky.

And now my pillows smell of smoke,
though the wood is wet and the
chiminea is put away,
and the dead in my dreams are alive and well
and the driveway is not on fire.

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