Fires are always a gift of waking and waiting;

Waking to dispell the fears of becoming,

or waiting to witness the night turning day.

Fires are watched, heralded in patience;

and some fires will wake, wait through

a night, burning time like a placid oil.

Others rage, crackle, spit

and billow blood-warm air ~

Devour memories, from

fragrant wood to vapours

We watch this one,

very one that we walk

so solemnly around each day,

this fire in our destiny’s sanctum,

the pyre of our singular sacrifice

that we orbit, by day in thoughts,

in measureless absences

from habits and chores,

or by night in a feverish dream

Watch how we, and our shadows,

slide glibly around like its robes

we circle, entranced in the halo

with eyes downcast, counting a rhythm,

weighing each moment’s silent intent:

The fire and its halo

are its own intent;

our shadows, are

the intent of our bodies;

and we, yet to be,

the shifting intent

of the shadows

Now and then, flirting all certainty,

the splitting tongues of the flame

may cast, say, two of you, three of me,

or inseperably just one of us

mingled, swapping,

forgetting all role or form

Youthful blindness to lights of auspice

numb to the blessings growing around,

well-wishing joyful showers,

we choose to walk on, unrelenting

praying, seeing nothing but this circle

as if to gravitate on the fire itself,

to shed this life and all

its shadows, all at once

And if you have looked on lately,

sometimes, only the shadows remain

detached absurdly from our feet

still stepping away, satin quiet

among fallen petals from garlands

not wearing the floor,

or even the empty air

Shadows,

still walking around the fire

still keeping its watch,

while their bodies have flown off

on whims of escape, or

to sleep and pass out cowering

from the rigours of keeping

their truth awake

~end~