Then fire again. #oldjournals

Crackling green wood
clinging shriveled brown leaves
popping and burnt wildly.
A flame just to sit beside me,
mostly idly.

Frogs with the curious voices of men speak masked in treeline.
Just a few, but they’re creeping in.

A rattling at the door from the inside, a feline,
truly getting comfortable in her windowsill,
finally still.

Listen to the soldier. The guard. The dog barking across the yard.
Imaginary shifting feet and postures.
Hostile, even toward darkness,
And ignorance especially.

Then there is howling casting base crescendos through the further distance.
Car horns sound in an instant and echo off brick walls.
In her driveway, a neighbor taking a call.

A hyper owl, and close, fluctuating cricket sounds.

Then fire again.
Illuminating a flickering page,
consuming an old pine log,
now quiet.

All the noisy young green wood is burnt up. Gone.
This is the stage when flame takes a heavy piece of wood,
and makes it light
again.

Truly awakened #oldjournals

When you don’t go out at night to sit before a fire,
it doesn’t show up in the writing. Like the morning.
Freshly awakened. If the story carries on until evening,
will it also fizzle out with the sun, and end?

If you wake up and write, if that is your habit, then truly wake.
Head shake, rub eyes, gleam, stare hard at blank paper in early hours.
Lose focus through the window, give it to sun-kissed flowers,
brightly lit in morning air. Wake out of it. See it stark dark.
Suppressed under shadow, painted black.

Every bloom has a root, which is not so bright and beautiful.

The fire brands hands with soot,
to remind you in the morning
to write the night before.