The Last Fire Burns the Hearth

the last fire burns the hearth another day rung into reality. street sounds dim, silence waits suspended between chimes. Sunday city deserted, commerce denned up in the suburbs. no prayers today, the dead clank of frozen church bells barely falling beyond the church spire. snow drifts, sifts into every crack and crevice of an aged face eyes closed in seeming peace filled slumber. great beauty and dignity adorn the alabaster of his skin. a small brown bird huddles close the old fellow picks it up to shelter from the careless cold. he rests propped against sacred walls, among small things. grey-worn, crumpled like discarded paper ads, unread. come morning a sparrow hops from between prayer folded hands. without one backward glance it erupts into an ecstatic dawn unaware of his benefactor’s parting gift.