Ode to a Tiny Furnace

Tumultuous Nature,

Thunder echoes throughout the valley high in the mountains.

Winds blow in all directions,

Trees bend and sway, fearful bark breaking.

Drops of rain lacerate bare skin.

There he sits cradled in a wooden gazebo,

Exposed, shivering.

Each breath fuels an inner furnace.

Lungs serve as fireplace bellows,

Feeding the growing flame,

Heating and circulating,

Pulling and pushing,

Sustaining warmth,

Still, Warmth.

"Oh dearest, sweetest heart of mine," he begins,

"How I love you so,

You hold fire like a warrior, you hold virtue like a monk,

You remember the taste of mother's milk,

You remember the light in father's eyes,

You hold love, you hold promise,

You sustain.

"How may I ever tell you, in words so sweet,

How precious you are to me?

How may I ever tell you, in words so sweet,

How grateful I am?

For You being no one else's but mine,

For You being nowhere else,

But here?"

A solitary tear forms in his right eye, closed,

As a drop of dew forms on the grass in the early morning hours.

Warmth spreads to the surface of his skin,

Heating his clothes, creating steam that rises.

Ringing fills his ears, the glorious ring of singing bowls.

Pressure lifts as winds and rain slow and calm.

Such Grace.