Wednesday, September 24, 2014


We have a new gas fireplace 
this winter. 
It turns on with a click, 
leaves no wood
chip mess, and cost us
a heap to buy and 
install. I can't put 
a kettle on the hob 
or depend upon it 
if the power goes out. 

I remember another fake fire when we
were newly wed with a need for 
romance after the babies were tucked
into bed. It didn't cost anything. 
The candles feebly flickered a brave flame 
off the cardboard box backed 
with shiny aluminum foil. Stacks of 
 rolled, brown construction paper logs,
wood grained with crayons burned
with orange flames looking like 
limp ocean waves because the cresting
 paper curls were ambitiously high. 

We lounged luxuriously - 
roasting marshmallows 
and toasting our love - 
warming the other's skin 
with kisses and hugs. 
I wonder two things: 
How did we cue up 
our imaginations 
so fast? And how did we 
manage to fit or have any fun
on that postage-stamp sized
sheepskin rug?