Back home

Overcast, late in the afternoon, dark
inside, cold hearth, poking amongst the
ashes,
is that a glow?
Once this heart was young and all
seemed possible.
Now world-weary and more than that,
laden within, so thick, so thick.
Then unfelt draft stirred ashes lift there
is a glow beneath.
Quick wood chips, some splinters, tinder
gently laid on and
face close, softly blow and again and
then alight, stick by stick-fed soon that
cold edge is gone.
It’s not just the warmth
lightens my heart like that draft was a
gust of Mercy from somewhere close.
Subtle, Close, Aware.
I remember now.

-Anas Coburn

Originally published in the Summer 1992 print edition of The American Muslim.