hisses-
it's voice held back.
It takes a lot of urging,
plenty of tinder
to hold it steady
like small things
from fast passing days,
feeding it:
tending
and turning it,
I watch
as flames lick the air
in a song of orange.
Remembering the dark cave,
the long damp nights
of fear….
the bone creeping moisture
muffling the noises
of the night,
magnifying care…
the first sparks
like magic born of stone,
the soft blowing
on a bone whistle
calling the fire's spirit
to awaken
and finally
the sudden spurt
of firm commitment-
flaming wood
casting shadows on the cave,
inspiring pictures
painted with fingers
from the dye of roots.
Homes change.
The wood dries.
A steady burning fire
becoming glow…
and I
a hearth keeper,
feeding the coals,
watching joyful
the ever-changing dance of flames…
proud crackle
reminding me
why it is
that I insist
on raking ashes.
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