What is this gentle heat that fills my nights,
Warmly reaching to my being’s core?
In other fires’ dancing, flickering lights
I’ve lost my chill, but this seems so much more
Than just another branch that’s caught in flame,
Crackling, dramatic, in its early blaze,
But too soon quenched by wind, or time, or rain—
Leaving just pungent ashes, smoky haze.
This grows from spark to roaring, searing glow
To comforting, enduring yellow flame,
Dies down to waiting coals and, with a blow,
Returns to heated, fiery life again,
This hearth–fire, as the moon or light of day,
Might wax and wane, but never dies away.