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.
