return (of the season)

the cold of the day
marked the first
of the year

had come
in buffets of bluster
and a swaying
of trees

the chill
set him to wood
to paper

to kindling

the first fire
of the season
sent a secret of smoke
to explore
all means
of escape

and he swam
through the air
within it
even as he closed off
every avenue
and path

the first flame
the first smoke
the first

the year had
at last


Poem #532 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

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