the unhinged ash fell

silently

among the clinkers

still red-hot



glowing gorgeously behind

window squares of isinglass

embedded in etched nickel—

the walls of a benevolent potbelly



emanating warmth worth dressing by

when every window

of that old grey clapboard house

was frosted solid

and a current cold as ice

squirreled blindly under every door



it was a defining time

a time I chose to cherish—

it was the January of my life



now it is October—

in the cellar one small cricket

chirps his pitch

he is the shiny black of anthracite

hiding aside one kept scuttle

long empty

                         overflowing