by Joan Mazza
On this cold December morning when the fire
in the woodstove keeps dying, I think of dragons
and their shape, how one could appear at any time
with breath that would astound me. I amble down
the stairs to feed the beast another log, to fuss
with embers, twigs, and another stick of fat wood,
leave the glass door ajar to make a draft and feed
the flames. A golden dragon coaches from the couch,
his scaly body draped across the patchwork throw.
Trees that stood for thirty years have given up
their limbs, felled by chainsaws a year ago,
let me break their carbon bonds and wait for heat,
clever strategy to keep my thoughts silent as a violin
closed in its velvet case. Flames on wood create a music
old as humanity. They keep me focused on what I still
can do: build a fire, climb stairs, pour coffee. Breakfast
surprises with egg salad on homemade challah toast,
escarole and green pea soup. No radio, no bad news.