Cold Fire

When the Fire

Goes cold,

And all turns ash in the Pyre,

When the wood gets too old.

There are signs of whispering,

Past trails of flames dancing,

Wherever the warmth has gone,

It won’t be here till dawn.

And the smoke just floats,

Up into the starry sky,

Up the lake that carries our boats,

Here we lie.

We listen to the leaves rustle,

As the breeze caresses the skin,

And all goes out with a Fire,

And the world fades around the Pyre.