The fissures scar over stronger than before.

I stand at the edges of Hestia's domain:

a flickering shadow,

gasping at the suggestion of warmth.

I overturned every rock and fallen branch,

every plastic wrapper,

but in the end it found me.

No roaring bonfire or even crackling logs;

the red simplicity of a candle,

cinnamon-scented,

is my humble hearth.

Hestia's arms encircle me here,

in the light of this scrap of flame.

She gave up cold majesty

for the glow of a bed slept in.

For yawning normality,

and the comfort therein.

I know what that means,

because,

well,

the blaze doesn't come from where you think.

The bare bones of a building

are just that:

a frame for what's within.

It's the beat of a heart

and in fighting for foot-room,

that's where I find my home.