Forest, Fire, Page.

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I drag dry, dead frames

From a forest of Pine.

Weave a nest from

Thin branch to thick.

The fire builds quick,

Calling to be stoked.

Growing with greed.

Without abandon I feed,

Winking autumn coals

Keeps away mosquitos.

The peepers sound like a solid wall,

The stars are yet to break.

I have nothing but time and ink.

A thin smoke chord signals

Perpendicular lines of word.

The fire holds a solid glow

Pushing at shadow

Allowing the pen to flow.

Ember plagued by explosion

Send fireflies immolating.

They wink once then turn to feather.

Ash carried by the breeze

Thought captured by the page.


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