Passive frictions scrape little heats.
Strike flints hard into steel.
Breathe soft on the needles
and leaves, let flare the kindling
to dispel the spell of darkness,
the grime of grim fuels, damp tinders,
that burn low, without fire,
without spark and lifted ember,
without compassion or warmth
for a burn and new scars –
without the near spent coals,
still glowing, that nourish us
with a hot and clear broth,
in our tough resilient bowls.