Remember the embers
of the campfire as it died?
You could throw more wood on the fire,
poke at it purposefully until it was full and roaring again
or let it slowly fade to floating ash and bid me good night.
I squint at the night sky, hoping to find a shooting star,
my view blocked by black tree limbs arching above me.
Everything in this forest is at rest,
well, except for the mosquitoes, no sign of quitting.
I feel the wind lightly tossing my hair and the chill of the night air,
and I long for a sweater or maybe the warmth of your arm,
but I’m unwilling to be the one to break the spell.