We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.

 

One day I
Lit a fire
At which I
Boiled eggs
Made tea
Dried my shoes
And I sat
On a stool
Watching
The sticks catch and flame
Quite a while
It seemed,
Until the whole pile I’d gathered had all burnt away.

Flame
Is a thing I
Always wonder about.
It seems to be made of colour only.
I don’t know what else it’s made of.