Little Fires

[bruorton]

I have not slept well. Awake at 4,
I’m too cold to go back to sleep,
and too easily wakened completely
to get up and find my flannel pajamas
and then go back to sleep. Catch-22.

I finally give in at 5 and get up, begrudging everything:
cold, the coming day, wakefulness, the world.
In the stove I lay logs on last night’s coals,
not bothering with tinder; a trickle of smoke
and I desert it to catch flame on its own.

I grumpily measure out water for the morning’s porridge,
two cups, and turn on the electric range, a practice
so rote I could do it in my sleep. Then,
switching off the kitchen lights, I reward myself
by lying on the couch until the water boils.

It’s a sort of lie, of course, a momentary
make-believe that I could go back to sleep.
But the couch is soft, and so is the dark,
and I listen as over in the kitchen the range
ticks into a dully glowing heat

while on my other side the fire comes alive,
a cracking, flickering orange creeping through
the stove door I left ajar to give it air.
And then, from nowhere in the dark room
my little cat appears upon my chest

and begins purring at once, her delicate paws
kneading and unclenching on the fabric
of my robe, her head pushed into the hand
that gropes blindly toward her, her little fire
delighting in all that is right in the world.