I see light yonder in your eyes
aglow like all desire and wonder
if it reflects straight from a fire
deep within your heart
or from the glow of my own,
begging questions to be asked of you,
but I answer in your place
and as I tend this task alone
I brace against my doubt, so it is stayed.
Is your heart a hearth for me?
I ask, pondering if a chance exists
that such a fantasy consists
of any plausible reality,
checking if the signs suggest
a burning fire that is desire
exists in you and plainly seems
to burn for me, and my doubt
rejects that possibility, but is stayed.
What caused this flame in you to be?
I ask, knowing all that burns
is kindled first by sparks spurred
from flint or mingled elements,
or any fire that burned prior,
but knowing not to what degree
your warming had been caused by me
instead of the defense we all seek
against the cold, and my doubt
denies responsibility, but is stayed.
Does your fire warm you amply?
I ask, hoping that its heat will reach
all the way down to your feet
from the pleats within your hair,
and that no other source you’ll need
to keep your skin always content
in the air that hangs around you
even on a freezing day, and my doubt
tells me you’re cold, but is stayed.
Will your heart burn eternally?
I ask, having kept my own fire stoked
for only you and for so long,
wishing yours is just as strong
so winter will not douse its flame
and not until we too are ash
will time ever let it wane,
lest I ever wake to see
it has simply ceased to be, and my doubt
says I will love and lose, but is stayed.