New Tradition

When the midnight oil has waned,

and the candles waxed,

puddles of sage-scented sandalwood

pooled on oaken tableaus,

the scent of sulfur and kerosene

all that remains to show that something,

anything,

had burned here.

-

When the moon has hidden his face,

to shine upon some distant galaxy,

forgetting the steady, long-loved sun,

the tides pulled out and away,

no longer holding the sand,

leaving it to shiver in the damp of forgotten froth.

-

When the camp fire dies,

and the last of the hopeful dancing embers

shrivel,

their pirouettes curling into gray streams

of unrequited smoke,

fresh logs lay dreaming of pyres,

as orange fades to black,

marshmallows piled, unroasted,

in bags that won't be opened.

-

what is left,

once everything has died,

but... to make new light.