The Taste of Fire

The night is dark so gather close and
build a circle of stones. Gather wood,
whatever you can carry,
and get a fire going.
The wind whips hard and the
people are cold and huddled against it.

Yes, there is darkness – but that is not this.

This is your body, broken on the forest floor
looking to an altar through a tangle of leaves.
These are your hands reaching for roots,
and stones, and the wind to pull you forward.

This is the wing-flap of ravens roosting
in the branches of your ribs.
They have stolen the light of the sun
to plant it as a flame in your chest.
You will know it by the taste of fire on your tongue
and the way that shadows recede when you speak.

This is the splintering of a pine struck by lightning,
and the embers that still glow hot in its heartwood by morning.
Yes, there is darkness, and you are weary
but there is lightning in your veins
and the taste of fire on your tongue.

This is the taste of blood in your mouth;
it is your tongue severed and offered
on an altar of story.
Take it;
it has heard enough of what the cedars say
and the speech of the shadow-cold stones.

You will need it, because
yes, there is darkness
and stories are the only tinder that burn.

Sometimes, you must let your whole body burn
so that you can be a light in the dark for others.
Though you have been broken in every way,
your bones scattered to the winds
then cast again from clay,
you have gathered the softness of moss –
this is what it takes to bear the dark.

And the night is dark, so gather close and
build a circle of stones. Gather wood,
whatever you can carry,
and get a fire going. Here,
stories are the only tinder that burn,
and the wind whips hard –
so speak up.