How can it be
flame and smoke rise untethered,
yet ember and ash cannot?
Flame leaps with ease in robes
of orange, blue, scarlet and purple,
while its kinsman, the ember
lies smoldering and glowing,
a pulsing red soul
writhing on a soft gray bed of ash.
Resurrection is but a breath away
but alas, so is the ghost of yesterday’s ember,
so is the darkness of the ash bin.
Its hunger will be satisfied
for the bellows which fueled the fire
lie cast off among a litter of tools
once forged from fire,
once wielded with expert hands,
once supple, now dry and cracked.
The blow of the hammer has been silenced.
The fire in the breast consumed.
The ashen handprint on the hearth swept clean.
Flint will again strike stone,
spark will again ignite kindling…
This poem was penned and offered this 11th day of March, 2007, with respect for and honor of Rick Pride. Your unwavering pursuit of answers to the looming, pulsing questions perplexes, annoys and inspires me.