Litany of Coal

I keep coming back to the fire

after it has stopped being impressive.

Not the blaze people gather for,

not the heat that earns applause,

but the thin, stubborn burn

that refuses to call itself finished.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

I tell myself I’m done—

that this will be the last match,

the last page set down like kindling

in hopes someone might feel the warmth

and say, yes, this mattered.

But the hand reaches anyway.

It always does.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

I’ve watched poems burn out before—

how they collapse into ash

without anyone noticing the shape they held,

how the room cools and conversation moves on.

I’ve learned that silence can be loud,

that an ending doesn’t always arrive

with ceremony or smoke.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Still, I stay with the coals,

listening for the sound of heat

turning inward,

for that low red pulse that says

this is not finished yet—

only quieter.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Maybe this craving is just another flame:

not vanity, not hunger,

but the ancient hope that someone else

will recognize the work of keeping a fire alive

when it no longer performs.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

If nothing remains but ash,

let it be warm ash.

Let it remember the shape of my hands.

Let one person kneel beside it and say,

not you won,

but I felt this,

and know that was enough light

to keep me striking matches

against the dark.