burnt
burnt stones in my fire
cracked ore red by the heat some
which stone are you
the one whose sweeping patterns of carbon
etched hot tears a choking whirlpool
of dissent and enmity ?
i pick some up
and if some scald my hand with their heat
those small weals will soon be gone
varying degrees of bird warm
i hurl them through the ash blown air
and they fly like fugitive colours
from the bright palette of the hearth
and troll off down the hill
where are you now rolling stones
who knows cares
sloth off back into your own dank earth
moss is creeping slowly over
worms and roots wrap you in their
love brace