by Tricia Knoll
Hold my hand to the cold fire,
dream fire, though I wince, dance
or run to the ice creek.
Hold me to the cold fire
that feeds on flames of questions
ignored as ash and wind-blow.
Old frozen thoughts
melt, drip, seep
toward that cave fire.
Demanding attention
how they go to earth
soaking half-hearted shadows.
Pretend at your peril the cold fire
is not always burning,
crackling done and overdone.
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