when the wagon wheel broke
they stopped
for good
no one had the heart anymore to go on
this place would be enough
the fire tender started the first fire
using small sticks and leaves that the children gathered
and larger logs that the older children carried together
the fire tender drew a circle around the fire
and no one could enter without her permission
“mother, may I?”
“yes, I see you, I know you are safe, yes, you may”
and she watched
the fire tender kept buckets of water nearby
and the thickest blanket for smothering
the tools of safety
in case she should fail
the fire tender always smelled like smoke
work fire smoke;
as the village grew
all fire descended from the first fire
the kitchen fires
the blacksmith fires
the fires that burned the dead animal carcasses that died from sickness
the fires that burned the weeds off the fields
the candles in the bedrooms where babies were born, or children read books
the wedding fires and other village liturgy fires
all fires knew the fire tender was their mother
the fire tender’s heart beat
fanning the flames
of the first fire, the work fire
pumped the essential life blood of fire through the veins and ventricles of the village
the fire tender welcomed the story teller into her home
and together the two women lived
keepers of the flame of fire and story
creators of light and life and passion
both smelling of smoke
and tending the flames
(Prompt for Hour Fifteen:
Write a poem about the heart. But don’t focus on the heart as a metaphor, focus on it as a reality. For example the function the heart serves in the body, or heart monitors, etc.)