The fire I built last night was the last fire of the season,
perhaps.
Impossible to know.
Might get cold again and the nostalgia for the smell of burning cedar
and the light blue air in the house might set in deep and I will
have to build one more.
So I don’t know that that was the last fire.
As I don’t know if tomorrow’s breakfast
will be the last breakfast or
if the paper I read this morning
was my last morning paper.
Such is the path of not knowing,
and the question of what to do
with the knowing of the not knowing.