There are things
better thought of by the fire
as log voices pop
and air circulating through them
can breathe around a story.
Flame is thought’s reservoir,
a white-gold dancer
trimmed with evening’s sky who
leaves burnt-orange footprints.
Cinders rest mysterious as owls
but noisier, and as the fire wanes
a glorious blue dancer steps forth
with its own quiet song.
We read memory in the fire
and see in the yellow dancers
what fleets ahead of words.
In a mystery of flames the blue dancer snaps
for its other spirits.
No nuance of thought follows this flame.
No dancing in expected lines.
When just the embers remain,
the story and belief come back to us,
coming for rest, perhaps shelter,
and to live in our silent place,
their tongues eager dancers from the flame.