After a simple meal, we wash with snow
and throw the bones on the bonfire.
Someone drags forward the remains
of the Christmas tree . . . rags, a suitcase,
a marriage certificate. Then you rush close
and offer something from your pocket.
The great animal in the fire
stands on its hind legs
and rakes the air as it falls backwards.
The orange light is like
a scrap of cellophane over the scene,
sealing the exotic diorama:
the vast flames on this bitter January night,
and our hulking, primitive shapes
shifting, thrusting forth a long stick,
falling back as the bundle of manuscripts
at last has some effect.
Our faces, bearded and smooth,
darken as the fire dies, and the cold
clamp tightens on the little clearing.
Despite the new year, the heavens
use the same worn calendar.
But tonight, strange unreasonable hopes
stir in us like seeds planted
far in advance of the season.
What we have done so far isn’t much,
but there is still time.