Thoughts fly like rising sparks, like arcs
of tiny tracers, or like darting tongues,
or roving eyes of flame; like shooting stars
let loose against the chaos and the dark.
The firewood crackles, spits, and flares.
Gold embers waver, surge, and glow.
The circled stones warm to their theme.
One cracks: is it passion or stubbornness?
The towering pine sighs in assent. A daring
moth flies close – too close – and burns;
while in the deep, cold grass a solitary cricket
chirps: brave, incessant, and unmoved.
And far above, the silent planets watch,
traversing the ancient pathways of the sky,
their steady light drawn from some wordless well
of wisdom that will far outlast the night.
About the author
July 1, 2021 by Chris Zimmerman
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