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The House May Be Burning

by Margaret Hasse

But keep writing.

Write by the glow of the windows,

the roof alight

like a red-haired girl,

you in the back yard, safe.

The ladybug’s flown away.

Recall her flit and armored crawl.

To the last breath of summer.

Upon the circular of winter.

The man may have left.

This doesn’t stop

the writing. Between

the pages, a slight blur.

The man may have been old

and ill, or young

who stopped trying

to be with you.

Ghost days.

You’re swimming across

a deep lake with a soul

you’re making.

You save the swimmer,

the sailor,

the drowned,

the damned

and the beloved.

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