on a long afternoon

am i foolish enough to believe
there is something i am waiting for?
something within these silly hopes
that the words i see spoken
with your hand over your mouth,
or in a guise of anonymity,
might match your once furtive glances--
over empty cups of tea, and beer?

we cannot seem to open the flue--
a light amidst smoke.
a warmth staggered by suffocation
of the long-known freedom
given by separation and isolation,
like a great plain waving goodbye in the wind,
as the winter fire spreads, consuming
these many fields between us.

but i don't seem to mind,
as i wait for these branches to bud.
for the days to grow long and hot,
when warmth is given much more freely.
still,
i love a good fireplace.
and sometimes even late at night in summer,
i desire to hear it crackle.