Michael Miller

The days grow short; the nights are getting colder—
So are the conversations on the phone,
And almost every evening he’s alone.
He shivered when he thought of what he’d told her.

The fire that blazed has now begun to smolder.
A new fire kindled from the earlier one
Is quickly lit and just as shortly done:
To have loved and lost is to be that much older.

A heart grown up but wandering like a waif,
Searching for shadows of what might have been,
Might find the light–the truth about the past,
A pathway to a clearing that is safe,

A comforter, whose kindliness could mean
A hearth, a home, a fire that’s built to last.