by Margot Farrington

    Inside the wood stove the smith steadies，

    proclaims his alliance with flame as

    heat quickens his hammer. And the singer， at first

    inaudible， fashions her rising song from seasons

    stored within logs of seasoned cherry， birch.

    I have delighted in their concert

    winter days and nights， rapt before

    doors framed in brass， their

    glass etched with twin wreaths. Circles

    that focused wonders I am about to mention：

    livid saints and salamanders，

    paraphernalia of magicians

    performing—with blue fluidity—

    their act without their masters.

    And always before curtain， the casket

    split asunder， the thief‘s hand passing over unattainable gems.

    But now there are people in the wind；the chimney sucks them down. I hear the singer inhale a choir； voice of thousands.

    A purity of anguish to leave the listener breathless. The notes， the notes are inferno；

    the smith beats out a knell.

    Those ashes I spill tomorrow upon freshly fallen snow have already blown for days across the city.