Technicalities

By now I should know
to build a fire
on a distant slope and fan
the flames so sparks
dance to the sky,
wishes on their way to wings,
and warm my bones,
old and getting older,
while the fire dies
low enough to belch these poems
into the world
onto the wind
furled up by a blanket,
not this glowing screen
and clicking keys
and fingers tingling
from the strain.