It is a dark wet day

as if the sky is washing its soul.

Streets are slippery with

discarded dreams.

Air is fogged with old breath.

We huddle together for warmth

and burn the fires of our hearts

as brightly as we can,

wishing we had not neglected to

tend them when we could have,

wishing we had taken time to

lay in fuel, wishing we

hadn’t let them get so full of

old ashes.

It’s a wonder that they burn at all.

by Cher Bibler