the wind comes down sharp

and cold

from the hard white blade

of the mountains' tip

turning the fields to brittle gold

with backs bent past  

the breaking point

but somewhere out there

an ancient fire burns

that won't surrender to the wind

won't give to the suffocation 

of exsanguination    

nor be the kind of careless 

to be carried far away 

into something so wild

it burn its own self down

to so many ashes 

it cannot learn to rise again

this is the fire that burns too dim

when you are such a distance

you cannot see what it can be

beyond the in between 

of caught to manic impulse

inherent to the flame

and the too long without the tending

withered to cold and waned 

but fire is a thing when lost

to be renewed from what 

the spirits let go 

when they concede to cry

and roar for us the rage

that we've forgot to feel

with tears that bring the bent 

and broken backs

of grasses and of loves

to reach up for the sky as if

they never were knocked down

and if you should ever

come back down

from where you straddle 

the icy edge of blade 

that cuts the wind

right off the bone of stars

to serve up cold and hard

the fire that burns of stories 

and of nourishment and warmth

will be unceasing in the night

for you to wear as blanket 

worn as skin

that takes the offering of stories

of where you've been

and the silence of 

doesn't want to tell

as babies to its breast

loving one not more 

than it could love the other

loving only as heat

cannot help but love 

those who have touched too close

the slicing blade of cold

and then returned to fire