Flames dwindle
that once roared
in this fire pit.
Living life, who stops
and realizes the naure of
our single day
autumn possessions?
when we replace them with
so many others.
First you toss a lit match
into a puddle of charcoal fluid
and bask in the heat of a
searing moment.
Although, if anybody
was judging, best would be
to carefully arrange the logs
and diligently spin a twig between
two sweating, blistering palms
and fan the kindling
that gasps for the first breath
like a newborn child.
A fire consumes its origins,
and roars defiantly for a
while. I swear, I realize the delicacy
of all this. We are not boiling a stew
within Hephaestus' forge. We are not
ever-so-gently crisping marshmallows
over dying embers.
The late Frieda Kahlo has taken
the liberty of cutting out two
hearts to hang above
a hearth,
when we
must find a way to
keep them warm
and keep them beating.
Does it feel like we are about to toss
the last substantial fuel into the hungry pit?
Do we fear all knowledge that wood burns
and that others will simply
sing Kumbaya above our ashes?
I do not think so. This is,
after all,
the era of
renewable energy.
~~~
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Submission Name: The Fire Pit
