Fathering

Fathering

I see butterflies with faces
fluttering through the blizzard,
shrieking to each other
in their tiny voices:
“Are you there?  Over here!”

I wish I could help them,
somehow swarm them
into my small warm tent,
where I possess a peaceful fire—

a fire made of rocks—
burning rocks—
rocks that glisten—
sibilating rocks,
that glow—

The reposeful glow of red
wishes they would fly to it,
spurring them to it—

But then what would I do?
Frantically shepherd them away
lest they sizzle crisp
in the heated glow?