Fire

Photo by Richard G. Smith

Old snow like chilled talcum powder lines the road
while the sky ahead blazes
with an open wound —
ready to give everything of itself.

All while I calculate, ruminate.
What is gone or slumbering?
Silenced or only listening?

I used to know.

We once stood melded with
the ebb and flow of time until
sickness morphed and erased
ancient memories.

Now we wander, addled by
what we do not see
and depleted
by a futile struggle
for what remains.

When spring comes, will we rise —
giving freely of ourselves,
lighting the world with orange fire?

Or languish —
pushed to the side,
sublimating into frigid air
on the cusp of
seasonal transformation?