By Pete Tucker

Flames dance at my hearth this eve,
Dare say, with noted verve.
Their dalliance n’er in duplicate
I delightedly observe.

I muse in wonderment
How can it even be?
Flames of every pattern
They dart fantastically.

No two seem the same.
And no need for such.
More important, all agree
The hearth be warm to touch.

It is well that all is silent,
No howls in the dark.
Rhythmic leaps of flame beguile.
Then, too, a ruffling spark.

Content to rest the evening long
Entranced by fire’s glow.
Perhaps  I’ll scribe some verse this eve
If there be words apropos.