The Song-Stoked Fire

Smoke curls into the air,

Twirling,

One thread dipping another,

A slow waltz

With some quick steps to spark

The band,

A careful orchestra

With some tricks up its sleeves,

The crackling of symbols

And an electric piano,

The tremolo of sap

Still bubbling in logs,

The fizz and hum

Of background slurs

Drawled by basses and cellos

Their fingerboards sparkling

With flames,

Neatly dusting

The sand-checkered floor

With flakes of ash,

Tiny bits of notes;

The conductor sits

In the center,

One clump of paper

And cardboard,

Feeding the logs,

The twigs,

Soaked in the applause

Of waves lapping the shore,

Cheering on

The song-stoked fire.