I still see music (though
I doubt others can) when
she sticks her tongue out,
that playful wit flickering
just behind her eyes
as she impishly invites me
to join her by the fire.
Before, I went through life
in shadows trying to make
as little noise as possible,
but she lit a spark inside me.
Now flames flutter in rhythm
to the kindred tune rustling
between my melting ears,
at home in the
boisterous warmth —
she makes faces
just for me.
The fire reveals the fruit,
clearing away
the brush so we can fight
our way to the heart
(maddening
though I can be) where
the truth burns blue.
The fruit tastes sweeter
for the journey,
singe marks hinting at a past
enlivened by flame
(sticky
though it may be) that
clings to us both.
The flamboyant flame stands before me,
framed by garish smoke rising
to meet an aloof sky. The crackling embers —
embarrassed to be seen laying down
on the job — pop out of sight,
making way for flashier lights.
The bonfire demands to be seen, illuminating
places undiscovered, too dark to survey.
Is it possible my caustic humor burns
those who venture too close? Do I dare
take stock of myself now — already gray —
biding time ’til I pop where I lay?
Perhaps, as winds breathe smoke
unexpectedly back in our faces,
I merely shift my perspective.
There’s magic in turning sticks into wands
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.
Often Mumbled Musings