At dusk of day on Sawyer Lake,
We rest a sleeping bag beneath a tree
With withered limbs that break each time the breeze
Whirls out from where the houses lay.
And once the breeze becomes a wind
Too cold to bear without a short retreat
We make a tent beneath the bag for heat
And lightly cup the other’s hand.
But it is time enough I took the match
From out my pocket where it waits
To give to Candle some of Fire’s touch
Before the dark can take the days.
And then we kiss with just the warmth of heart;
The candle, match, and tent apart.
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