The House May Be Burning

But keep writing. Write by the glow of the windows, the roof alight like a red-haired girl, you in the back yard, safe. The ladybug's flown away. Recall her flit and armored crawl. To the last breath of summer. Upon the circular of winter. The man may have left. This doesn't stop the writing. Between the pages, a slight blur. The man may have been old and ill, or young who stopped trying to be with you. Ghost days. You're swimming across a deep lake with a soul you're making. You save the swimmer, the sailor, the drowned, the damned and the beloved.