Wet Matches

They’re wet again.
The matches are always wet.
I need a fire tonight.
I know that.

I live in
the shadows of her insecurities;
freezing hollows of despair.
And out here on a barren hill no less.

Sometimes the sun
really shines through these clouds.
Still, it’s so far away
it can’t destroy the chill.

Yeah, I know -
“the other hills.” I see them from here.
But the walk would kill me;
slow and quiet-like.

Did you know
a humming bird flew up here once?
Why would it have come
unless there had been flowers near by?

I’ll try again
but the sticks and grass are pretty damp.
Cursing them is all that
keeps me warm sometimes.

Don’t worry.
Dying in the cold isn’t so bad.
I remember that, after the shivering,
you just get real sleepy.

They’re wet again.
The matches are always wet.
I need a fire tonight.
I know that.

-Just a peasant

Photo from Cajas National Park