by Maria Weber I have a fondness for fire, For stew pots with fragrant ingredients, Comfort food that wraps a blanket Around my heart in cold weather. My ancestors came from high frozen mountains With high frozen hearts that needed to thaw. On a beach under the heat of a dead volcano I find my own Mediterranean. I drive west with my husband past the place Where we spun on glare ice one February. Woodsmoke inside the car snaps my head around. We look at each other. Where’s the fire? We eat a pinto bean pot every Saturday night Pressure-cooked…
