On this particular night in May

You’ll light a fire

Out or in, it doesn’t matter

Set the ritual like this

Take the sticks the jackdaws left

In the middle shed as an act of revenge

(but that’s another story)
Add a teaspoon of kerosene

Toss a fistful of incendiary words

And crack a match. Crosshatch three

or four young spruce logs on the flames.

Then blindfold choose a talking log

And place on top. 
Know that your entire future lies in choosing well.

Fake the confidence it takes to complete the gesture.

It gets easy after that. Night settles into orange, grey

And black. Rare and sacred on this particular night

Are the candles burning uniformly. The wind from the east

Is shy in our northwest promontory.
The talking log is slow to start and whatever was said to the rose

To coax her open must be more vigorous with wood,

But density’s intricate legacy is consoling.

Whatever voice whispered sweetly to the wind

That made her soften, sends me a loving message too.

In sibilance. Don’t sophisticate.
Suppose on this particular night

The log talks to the wall for an hour and

Won’t address you at all.

Laugh. Know we all need an audience

the talking log is teasing you.

Beg, entreat the log to prophesy.
Just when you’re ready to admit defeat

and study the illuminated wall,

look up as the branches of the ash tree

reach for the ink blue heavenly sky

above your head, watch as the heavens sparkle.