It is true that the day is almost done

and the sun, sinking slowly,

bleeds past the horizon to die in the orient.

It is true that night is

being dragged across the sky

on the wing tips of blackbirds,

those charcoal demons that caw

in my sleep from the dark pine branches.

And the stars, pushing through the

gauzy blackness, dimly light the snow

the color of veins.

And good children are being tucked into bed

by good mothers who smell of home.

But please, let me stay a while longer

by the side of this fire.

Let me look at the snake-like movements of

copper and gold on the embers

for just a little bit more.

And as soon as I have filled my eyes

with the light of the flames,

to keep me warm in that dark, cold bed,

I will go,

I promise.