As I stoked a dying fire,
A warmth set to soon expire,
I added more fuel: dried wood.
Gave coals space to breathe, good.

And as I watched pine
Smoldering there,
Wood slowly warming,
Yearning for air,

It gave me pause;
Made me wonder why
Women look for passions’ cause
And ask for “sparks to fly”.

Sparks flying mean only
The flame’s been disturbed, goaded,
Kicked, poked, prodded, turned,
Or that super-heated sap exploded.

Instead shouldn’t they look for
The smoky, slowly-warming feat
That finally gasps air, and with a roar
Throws off constant, strong, radiant heat?

No sparks there
Kicked, thrust, thrown at random
Into the night air
With sudden, reckless abandon!

But rather glowing, red,
Steady, comforting heat.
Passions’ flame which, carefully fed,
Gives warmth that will repeat.