Twig the Grounds

The flames have dwindled down to logy coal.

Aye, my roaring stove has been exhausted.

It kindled warmth, with passion sang its soul;

then in frigid darkness – somehow lost it.

Hours ago, the hottest I remember,

I felt it toast my face and proof my core.

Now it crumbles cold to crusted ember,

and long is night to go on empty store.

I try to stoke it, feed the famished fire,

but every piece I pile only smothers.

The birch, the oak, and all that I desire

overwhelm the remnants like the others.

It seems the only hope to stave its death

is twig the grounds that glow and give them breath.

Published in Inkwell Spring 2021 Bethany Lutheran College