Thursday, November 5, 2015

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

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