Here the house fire rose

     by Gus Gustafson

Here the house fire rose,
the hearth fire rose on Xmas Eve,
arms and shoulders of a companionable
being warm and guileless energies linked
with quick tongues to secure good memories,
moments that might be counted on to hold
real promise in the face of Fate.

The small fire behind the andirons
on the hearth refused to flag, to gather
gracefully into shards of oak, become hot
coals, dying embers. Instead they
grew, those arms and shoulders flexing,
reaching, swelling up to search the chimney where
unguarded fragments of wooden framework leapt
at the chance to become more than aging relics
of earlier seasons, where sparks and stars
danced with then blanket of black for ages.

Four ire engines arrived in five heady minutes
to douse oak hopes, and rough gloves
opened raw flashes in weathered brick and mortar.
The night was fine, and neighbors came out
bare-armed or in shirtsleeves for glimpses
of what could have been tragic but
was kept small by quick calls and expert action,
a fine light drama of an entertaining evening.

Two months after the firenight's defying
defeated phoenix finally starts restoration
of the fireplace. But, no, not classic
firebrick and mortar with full-
fledged chimney rising
to the harvest moon or Big Dipper--no!
Human lungs, especially old or damaged ones,
hate the taste and abrasiveness of what's
breathed in on smoggy Berkeley nights and days.
Thus the City has recently decreed no new
wood-burning fireplaces will be permitted.
The seven-veiled dance of flames to be tamed
to natural gas, the chaste and companionable
fuel fit for a life of quietude, with
the occasional thrill of a night star
shooting no one, simply breathing in,
and then Out.