Embers

By Steven Wade Veatch

A fireplace warms the room,
pushes back the cold, 
and lets me melt away
from the present.

Now I sit with my grandfather in his cabin.
He stirs the fire with a black poker
and tosses an aspen log 
on embers that pop and hiss 
while wild sparks swirl
up the chimney. 
I listen to his stories
and learn about life.

As the embers grow dim,
I work to stir the fire, 
to recall those lost days,
blurred by the passing of time,
but my memories fade, 
like the waning fire and dying embers—
only traces remain.