It is November and raining hard, again, enough perhaps, for the salamanders to emerge from their long waiting patiently underfoot By droves they crawl, sometimes miles, beneath the beating rain, bound for the pools of their birth, navigating by stars, or some say by magnetism, but truly, no one living knows for sure, exactly what it is they track Few suspect it could be simply love
When I wake to see you stoking the coals in your underthings, feeding a log to the fire with your stout and lovely hands, which make so much of nothing, and you turn, smiling, and come to lay, somehow, despite all odds, beside me, my heart can do nothing but this fine surrender