by Anita Yoder

What ember sparks,
Alights your eyes?
It harks to mine and
Begs to hold
My eyes and warm them.

The walls I’ve claimed
Have held me safe
But never named
Me home.

Stumbling, cold,
In mind, not miles,
I straggle, traipse, and reach
For shell-edged hearth
And hand-thrown clay
Of sturdy mug and may,
I fear, not ever feel
The home or heart
You hold.

Your embers call
Like gold notes fall
And play.
They’d name me home
And sing me warm
But only for a day.

Anita Yoder dreams many impossible things, and is happiest when creating with words, colors, or textures. 

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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