It was winter outside and I sat by the fire. I have
my favorite seat, one that has taken my shape over time. This time, I chose a
rocking chair that has its own swing pattern no matter who sits in it.
And I looked at the fire. And this time, at a new
angle, the fire looked new, and the wood log showed me its new face.
It was a face I might have known. It was a face that
looked away from me, pensive and capricious. And the fire played with the long
hair that adorned that face. In red and gold, as warm as a frigid memory.
And I saw a woman's face, a body I might have seen once. On
a warm August day, when the summer rain became the earth’s aroma.
And made me who I always was.
December 13, 2025
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2025
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