Night's Red Song, Morning's Ash
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Pat Heavren's quote appears as the last line of this poorem.
The fire, this fire...
Any fire, the fire..
Still the only thing
I know which lets
so easily go, bit
after bit of itself -
and, what falls away
falls up.
The red, upfalling snowflakes-
free to dance into the rising Night.
The smoke curls, twists
and snakes toward a promised
indistinguishment: the Sky.
Not the fire, this fire...
Not any fire, the fire...
Falls into itself,
quietly lowering log to coal.
Each heated to weaken,
to lastly live in the Sacred Bosom
of this fire's Heart, of the fire's
Heart.
Ten logs; one for each direction -
The Cardinal and the Betweenings,
as well the Sky and Mother under
All.
These last two perched one on the other -
The slender Skylog atop
the two-hand, "bend your knees."
Pachamama there, as ever,
supportively and unthankedly
Beneath.
The waters so well hid within
these woods whistle free now -
Listen closely! Behind the crackle,
harmonizing with the barn owl.
And these smokes
rise from reds
and tonight curl into
an unseen embrace -
with this fog.
Smoke lost in fog...
Fog lost in smoke...
Every "Once upon a time"
has its time and then it's time
comes... a The End, a Fin
will be our lost smoke,
our cold Forgot,
our morning ash.
Would that we could
(Would that we wood.)
"Come to the Ground with Grace."
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2020
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