Gone Caveman

A cold call
blows a mist
from my lips,
evergreen trees
crystallized sweet
as a kids Christmas.
Winter feels me
with white fingers,
snuffing heat out
from me, frost mitt
across my mouth.

Back inside the house
the fireplace is holy,
I kneel before the flame
embracing my gods love,
vowing to wear warmer
more sacred garments
next time I leave home.

Fire, it good.


John G.Hall(C)2004