The Fire That Remains

The wind moves like a forgotten song,

threading through the hollow spaces of the world,

pulling at the edges of things once certain.

I watch the sky stretch itself thin,

bruised clouds unraveling into something unnamed,

something waiting to be known.

Beneath my hands, the earth hums—

a slow, steady rhythm,

as if it remembers all that came before,

as if it knows what must come next.

I wonder if the stars feel time pressing forward,

or if they burn without question,

never asking where the fire leads.

But then—

A shift, like the hush before a storm.

The moment when the tide decides.

A spark catching the hem of the dark.

And I understand—

Some things do not fade.

Some things do not fold into dust

or scatter with the weight of passing days.

Some things burn—quietly, fiercely—

through every rise and fall,

through every ending that isn’t an ending at all.

And so, I carry this fire.

Not in clenched fists, not in desperate hands,

but in the steady knowing

that even in the hush of embers,

it is never truly gone.