the fire was built higher still
in the hearth were the reminders.
the smoke had a fragrance,
probably from the flowers,
the letters burned a regretful green
and the clothes burned slow.
the heat was little comfort
against the coolness of thoughts
nor the orange-soft glow.
not the sort of blaze to sit around
and ponder,
neither the sort to light the pages
of literature.
this fire, this family of flames
flickers darkly and its smoke
will sting your eyes.

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