The forms we trust 

The blooming orange light paints the waxcoat draped on the chair, white worn of the black dye

The forms we trust 

Warm hugging through the day the unassuming clothes of the causally employed 

How I feel aches like elmwood embers lone glowing in the cast cathedral of the firebox


The forms we trust 

Mumble soft what you mean, clearing the cluttered table after a meal unbought

How I feel aches like elmwood embers lone glowing in the cast cathedral of the firebox

The light hardly sifts through the flapping sheets of grey rain 


Mumble soft what you mean, clearing the cluttered table after a meal unbought

Elm burns no hotter, no better, but the embers stretch cat eyed orange longer, to wit

The light hardly sifts through the flapping sheets of grey rain

The returner, his waxcoat dampening and boots thrushed by mud, can enter and throw white dry wood to warm the outer dark


Elm burns no hotter, no better, but the embers stretch cat eyed orange longer, to wit

That dreams, ember dormant, might light such

The returner, his waxcoat dampening and boots thrushed by mud can enter and throw white dry wood to warm the outer dark

And, exuviated of his casual work clothes, chrysalis by the fire 


The blooming orange light paints the waxcoat draped on the chair, white worn of the black dye

Nicolas DeusonComment