I watched you sitting by the wood fire,
outside at night surrounded by redwoods.
You wore a brown flannel and a gray scarf,
and held your hands above the flame.
There was a warm correspondence in the air.
You had built the fire yourself.
The wind picked up
and the flame jumped towards you.
Chills ran down my spine, as you pulled
your hands from the wood fire.
I stood there, next to a redwood,
frozen—trying to figure out
how to speak, to you, from afar.
At this hour of the night,
I dare not approach without precedence.
An owl hoo-ed behind me.
The girl, moved by the sentiment,
Looked towards the origin of sound.
She saw me; I saw her.
We both had fear.
Time went by.
“I was just walking around
and then I saw you
and I’m a poet
and you are beautiful.
The scene is beautiful.
That’s why I stayed, watching.
I can gather more wood.
I’m cold, and could use a wood fire.”
I gathered the wood,
brought it to the fire.
I placed pieces strategically,
like words in a sentence of a poem.
It must have been 9 o’clock.
I sat down at the 9, you
were sitting at the 12.
I placed my hands above the fire.
Soon enough the wind came—the
flame jumped. I pulled back
my hands and chills may have
run down your spine.
“This is good,” I said