I was sitting in my den listening to the sound

of logs crackling in the hearth,

on occasion I lit my pipe

and read "La Mordida"


the hearthstone watched me closely

imploring calm; a plea from abroad

the wind in winter's treetops

played its usual tympanum in my ear

and a sound drew near

a sound of a low roar, steady rising


without alarm I moved toward the louvred windows

to draw the blind,

when lightning scorched the pine

of my heart

and split it apart by a meadow fair


I stepped to the hammer,

and saw crickets playing checkers

I stepped one-half step back

and the fire rose around me

consuming all dross

filling my soul with light


I was happy to know why the bush

was not consumed by the flame