Still Fire


Yet the wood cannot be collected
without a little moss,
light – a burrow full,
and a song of cider-sap
from the knot hole.

A living shadow
the flame, naked
laughing in your unsteady eye.
A little something
saved from the sun’s harvest,
a bit of air
left in the bird’s wing;
a sprig of dove
lodged in between sunken olives.

smoke feeds the night.


About dwk758

When I was in the 6th grade, I was fascinated by a brief section in my World History book about ancient Greece and the philosophers, mythology, and original Olympics. I wrote my first poem about it that started: "Ancient Greeks and old time Romans...". Ever since it has been an elaboration on that theme...and I have wandered far afield.
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