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.)