A mantle, bare,
holds no memory
for the old hopes
it once shared.
No photographs,
trinkets,
or artifacts
await
to recall the
missing pieces
that once fit
there.
Neither the warmth,
nor the reflection
of the fire,
burning
above
the hearth’s stone,
can tell the story
of the ones
long
since
gone.
There is no fire,
but coal and ashes
will always remain.
Remains…?
How can this place,
where fires once raged,
breathe such chill…?
My bones ache.
Hand-in-hand,
warmth went
with memory
along that
lonesome,
unlit road.
Split-oak effigy.
A fire needs a spark.
A cord of wood
doesn’t equal what it should
if each piece
is a memory
lurking
inside
this impenetrable
dark-
nessss.
Frozen hands reach,
but never find
sticks
or leaves,
to start the blaze,
no photographs left
to twist,
or kindle,
so I could use them
for the same.
There are no pictures,
and,
in the dark,
the covering glass
is just
too cold.
Leave the mantle bare.
I choose the baubles
and if a dying warmth
is needed,
I will burn the home.
©️ Obol, 2020.
oohhh gosh… my heart aches
Wow to that ending especially! That got seared into my mind’s eye.