like coffee grit
between my outstretched toes.
and lumberjack plaid
chosen for camping in the cold.
All the bridges broken down and stacked
in the back of a pickup truck,
neatly arranged in wait of that spark,
the spark I can’t not write about,
the spark that fizzles out
and tries again to catch
and grab hold
and set roots.
Around a hearth with laughing facesthat spark outpaces me.