In Cracks of Flaming Bark

In this stillness, outside,
where fire leaps above grasses
into the womb of air,
moths mythologize themselves
beside his flame-fixed face

Moths that care for soft passage
from night-light to night-light,
passing through darkness like
winged knives
as the night-hidden clouds drip slowly
the humid galaxy’s first dews

and nothing could be so special
than waiting by the fire . . .

Waiting
for a day of wonder to come,
beyond all the lost loving,
as this listening to wisdom happens
on warm ears
from inside cracks of flaming bark

and his eyes hurt, reaching
toward an ember, another reminder
of patience,
another nearing star
that might fall, tomorrow,
into his waiting hands

 

© J. Celan Smith