Sweat on his brow

Freezing in minutes,

Icicles over his eyes,

He drags and drags

Dark brown logs of all shapes and sizes

To a spot of untouched snow 

In the midst of evergreen trees

As far as the eye can see.

 

All that work and walking and waiting for the burning

Of a night’s bright light.

 

This light among early nights

Brings waves of yellow and orange

To his face

And sights of flames 

That mirror off his glasses.

Warmth in the cold nights

To his body

In December.

 

The crackling wood 

Is like music to his ears,

A number one track

Written by God Himself.

 

Smoke wafts over his face,

Choking him 

Sometimes,

But the smell of burning wood 

Reminds him of why he adores 

Bonfires

And can bear a little too much heat.

 

For a light show,

He throws an iron rod he found 

Into the fire. 

 

Suddenly

The flames dance

And soon lime green auras

Conquer the orange waves.

 

He smiles,

Perfectly content 

With his own creation. 

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