Hearth

Match, paper, twigs
hot gases dance
off good prairie poplar
and a thread of smoke
rises from the fire
stinging my nose just so.
These dry cured logs
burn to nothing
too hot and too fast
popping yellow flames
not like the even solid coals
of hard eastern oak and maple
nor so aromatic
as sweet coastal cedar
but tightwoven nevertheless
through all of my dreams
bittergreen, elemental
scent of home.