Night's Red Song, Morning's Ash

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."