by Deborah Digges

by Deborah Digges
     My life's calling， setting fires.
     Here in a hearth so huge
     I can stand inside and shove
     the wood around with my
     bare hands while church bells
     deal the hours down through
     the chimney. No more
     woodcutter， creel for the fire
     or architect， the five staves
     pitched like rifles over stone.
     But to be mistro-elemental.
     The flute of clay playing
     my breath that riles the flames，
     the fire risen to such dreaming
     sung once from landlords' attics.
     Sung once the broken lyres，
     seasoned and green.
     Even the few things I might save，
     my mother's letters，
     locks of my children's hair
     here handed over like the keys
     to a foreclosure， my robes
     remanded， and furniture
     dragged out into the yard，
     my bedsheets hoisted up the pine，
     whereby the house sets sail.
     And I am standing on a cliff
     above the sea， a paper light，
     a lantern. No longer mine
     to count the wrecks.
     Who rode the ships in ringing，
     marrying rock the waters
     storm to break the door，
     looked through the fire， beheld
     a clearing there. This is what
     you are. What you've come to.