by Phibby Venable
blue ridges, path loose with mud,
a halo of fog graying
in a new day
the old woman
laid out her fire
the night before,
in the rusted woodstove,
that still spoke
out flames each morning,
and sang out cold,
as she listened, trembling the newspaper toward warm
the old woman, always in smoke and daydreams, worn out
and beautiful,
in the pink glow of sunrise,
disappearing fire by fire