Now come the bitter days when we seek an ardent animal
to breath life into our flickering fires.

There’s the foxy carmine flames of an open hearth.
Tails brushy, bodies boisterous, they leap in play, pouncing

snatching, devouring the wood, well-aged and stacked against
this very need. It heats, it rises and bounds away.

The furnace is snug in its closeted den.
Curled in the dark, it sleeps until cool drafts prod it

to half-wakefulness and it begins to snore,
a low grumbling rumble.

Now, warmed, it shifts, turns and, bearlike,
falls heavy into slumber once more.

A dog will do as a heating device when it wraps itself
into the soft curve of your belly, but best

is the company of another in bed
spooned or arms flung wide, but there.

Not only body, but spirit warmed by the steady pilot light
of proximity. There, just there, through the night.