Weak Spots Xiii

Centered around ephemeral shapes, Now—shapeless now—flailing— Yellows, blues, oranges and reds, Heat eating what surrounds it till it Can no more—eyes—in the fire. . . The way life moves toward danger, And eyes watch closely, Growing and slackening, Distant singing and laughter. . . The fires that hear stories of the ancient ways, Tarrying through the tales, The coldness of the wild behind their backs, Smoke reaching toward starlit wonderlands. . . I hear resilience in the horror— And in the unison of kinship, Bodies moving closer to one another, As the eyes at last close against the coals 2.13.20 Note: I wanted to play with a little fire today. I wanted to write "Smoke reaching toward starlit wonderlands" but didn't feel I had room... however, I wanted to make it clear that the smoke hasn't made it there to that starlit wonderland...just like we reach toward the stars but don't quite get there sometimes. I hope that makes an ounce of sense, and I don't know why that makes me emotional and that it's so important to me, but I felt the need to share... Anyway, sending love to all and extra warmth today, wherever you may be. Love, Laura