tending fires

Field grows frost in the big of night,

in the negative space where cold and quiet silently implode,

leave behind the empty big of night

where slow things grow.

Earthworms find us out,

discover we have made sun like gods of the indoors,

abandon the unturned compost,

curse the floor and wither.

We want to make a man of snow.

In the shadow of the broken rooted oak,

shoulders under shawl of hay and leaves,

we shall build his predictable demise,

then crawl inside to tend the fire.