Campfire

My ashen gentleman arises. Rich in cinders,
his hands unravel to smother the splinters
and soothe me like bubbling brandy. Evenings
often I collapse atop my sketch pad, pages jolted
with willows and whimpers and that old, ugly owl,
and he carries me in a tea cozy of smoke,
where I awake to eggs and crisp French toast
(he does try not to burn the edges).

Each drawing is shaded in shy, charcoal strokes.
But if I reach up toward his burnt cheeks to kiss,
he disintegrates ’round me, lost as the mist.