My Lifes Calling

　　by Deborah Digges

　　 My life's calling， setting fires.

　　 Here in a hearth so huge

　　 I can stand inside and shove

　　 the wood around with my

　　 bare hands while church bells

　　 deal the hours down through

　　 the chimney. No more

　　 woodcutter， creel for the fire

　　 or architect， the five staves

　　 pitched like rifles over stone.

　　 But to be mistro-elemental.

　　 The flute of clay playing

　　 my breath that riles the flames，

　　 the fire risen to such dreaming

　　 sung once from landlords' attics.

　　 Sung once the broken lyres，

　　 seasoned and green.

　　 Even the few things I might save，

　　 my mother's letters，

　　 locks of my children's hair

　　 here handed over like the keys

　　 to a foreclosure， my robes

　　 remanded， and furniture

　　 dragged out into the yard，

　　 my bedsheets hoisted up the pine，

　　 whereby the house sets sail.

　　 And I am standing on a cliff

　　 above the sea， a paper light，

　　 a lantern. No longer mine

　　 to count the wrecks.

　　 Who rode the ships in ringing，

　　 marrying rock the waters

　　 storm to break the door，

　　 looked through the fire， beheld

　　 a clearing there. This is what

　　 you are. What you've come to