We were both so young,
I was more naive.
That morning was magical –
first stirring life,
damp air, unzipping a door,
wading toward the house through silvery grass.
Feet soaked from the dew,
mist rising,
fresh and green and almost musty smelling,
I walked across the endless yard.
The fire was out, all
white ashes and charred remains,
and I wanted
the lively, leaping, orange-yellow flames
instead of pale, cold dead.
I tried to bring it back to life,
couldn't succeed,
then you joined.
Together, we threw golden wispy straw
on the dying embers,
gently blew life back into the fire,
watched as a few tiny flames danced
out of the desolation.
We started a tiny blaze,
both of us so young,
wrapped in the innocence of childhood,
but I was more naive.