some nights the fire needs more attention than you have left
you sit close anyway
your hands remember how to feed it even when your mind has gone somewhere else
a coal by itself goes cold fast
push two together
and something happens that neither one manages alone
some people bring dry wood
some bring wood that’s still a little green
it burns slower or faster and stays the same fire either way
you take a turn with the bellows
so does the person beside you
the smoke that rises doesn’t remember whose turn it was
some nights only grey coals are left by morning
you sweep them out without deciding whose turn it was to watch
somebody brings more wood tomorrow anyway
when your hands get too tired to hold the poker
someone else’s are already reaching for it
never asking what you were trying to keep alive
the char from tonight’s wood
goes into tomorrow’s kindling
without anyone’s name on it
—lyra moon (somebody always claims they gathered the good wood)
september 26, 2026