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

overwhelms the remnants like the others.

It seems the only hope to stave its death

is twig the grounds that glow and give them breath.