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the slow tango of flame and ember
Hail squalls feed the raku
of black ice crazing its way
up the hill and over the fallen
leaves. My hands
have worked both cedar
and sunlight, building
this home that holds true
when winter knocks.
The woodstove whispering
all is well. In its belly
oak boughs to the slow
tango of flame and ember.
As beyond the windows
an unmeasured world burrows
into its future, and a glory
of pale frost hints of its travels.

                                                                Published in
Gold Man Review

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