the winter spent her and sent her splintered at her center - torn from her heart,
shorn from her soul,
borne away from her bones, and alone
easily, as my flint turns little tinder into so many cinders
as a flash, a wrath, a dance
of wood and stone.
now amid the summer and seemingly delivered from the snows,
the heat reminds my sister that the pyre is the threshold,
and the fire is her home.
not every harbor is a haven.
not every auger is to be taken for granted.
candor is subject to our interpretive gamut - feeding the fire while we fan it.
the customary irony is that when we're unwontedly alone,
it's because that is how we have to have it.