The match lights.
The newspaper sparks immediately —
the flame matching the intensity
of the ink passionately spread through
a dozen stories — and dissolves into ash.
The infant flame crawls onto twigs.
I stand mesmerized by this transmutation:
words once poured over by anxious writers
now spilled into a fire as kindling, sweat
burning into memories I’ve already forgotten.
The winds shift.
I rearrange the sticks to assist their demise,
wondering how many revisions — how many
editors’ notes — were born before the news
fanned out to a half awake audience.
The flames leap from twigs to logs.
I stare transfixed at the graceful movement
of the blaze (so gorgeous as it spasms
on this log, then another) effortlessly
transforming timber into trifling confetti.
I find it poetic.
My stomach screams an idea, an ephemeral epiphany
I must immediately share for art’s sake,
enthusiastically published on pulp
and eventually catalyst for another fire.
Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019