Kindling
It is hard to light a fire,
when there is no air to blow it out,
no wood to smother it over,
no water to douse its light.
They say the grass always look greener,
but here, standing on the edge of my own patch of land,
all I see is forest fires.
Too many candles,
in too many hands;
they blur together,
growing, spontaneous constellations,
and I, with only my kindling and flint,
do not know how to navigate nebulae
without getting burned.
I light a campfire, at the very border of my shores,
a lighthouse beacon in a sea of lighthouse light,
hoping that its dim yellows will stand out against the brightness,
will burn dull and small and orange enough –
no glimmer of gold –
that maybe other boats can find
my shipwreck,
the way that fire spreads:
catching alight,
taking to flame,
setting ablaze.
How delicate the verbs of our quiet ignition –
like laying a table –
softly spoken licks and clicks of the tongue,
a murmur around a campfire,
where you and I can sit
and talk a while
and warm each other’s stutters in the too bright dark.
So before you have to cross once more
into that forest fire,
candled sea,
let me catch your voice in bonfire.
Sit and kindle me.
Like the fingers in a magic trick,
white-gloved careful fingertips,
catching fireflies,
so easily.
