“…where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far…we are learning to make fire.”*
- “Habitation,” Margaret Atwood

slowly, our failed attempts drift back to us
on breezes thick with unfurled smoke.

we gasp for the cold air that stings
our throats, and lay our ears to the earth.

the heartbeat hums through the dirt –
steady and slow, so we wrap our arms

around each other and exhale.

but we are learning to make fire,
to lift embers with our fingertips

from damp leaves, to tickle them
in our palms, and wish them away.

we watch them dance along twigs;
we weave our fingers together;
we whistle to the flecks and the sparks.

and they kiss – with innocence,
without hesitation.

the earth hums low