pm poetry

The fire pit spits sparks that flit
up toward a slanted moon.
We sit in a ring of stories and songs
beneath deep winter blue.
As the world wars on, we huddle
around the warmth of smoldering wood.
Swapping words and sharing light
the way our species should.
Yet we’re building our houses stark hearthless,
and most only use flames for smores
or chestnut roasting at Christmas
while perched atop mountain resorts.
We’ve snuffed out the fire and now wonder
why we’ve scattered like sparks for the sky.
How long will it take
until we dissipate-
for us wayward embers to die?