I sometimes daydream of the cleansing flame
Calling in at the house I have made my home and
Poor guest, bringing no gift
Feasting past fulfillment not only on
What I would lay out for any at my door
Whom I would welcome in
But also on what I keep from my visitors
Things of which I am but a custodian
Keeping them for worthier hands than mine
Heirlooms laid up for those few I see
Who will come after or have arrived
Little enough of a legacy without
Flapping red tongues being put to it

It is not that I am eager
To lose so much
The results of the work of years
Decades
And not only mine
But the notion of starting again
Doing it right
This time
Has appeal
And a clean break is better than a ragged as
Leaves bone protruding through skin
Shards moving through flesh
Tearing and hemorrhaging
Killing in pain and quiet from within

I am not looking for matches
Brimstone striking to cauterize the wound
Or even for the knife to
Make the cut
But
I know where the cutlery is
And my whetstone is well used
And the matchbook is not so far from my hand as all that

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