I hunch beside a swaying flame
in the holy hush of morning.
The small lambent light,
like a fire sprite, jarred
and fiercely dancing.
I listen as the wind outside
my neat and splicing walls,
tussles boughs and fells
weak limbs, the unbending
snap and fall.
These moments are
stark separate from
the mundane
march of day,
and in this break
from the clock’s
soldierly stomp,
I lower my head
and pray.
Perhaps pray
is not precisely
the term for what I do;
perhaps requiem
is a better fit
for my gloaming,
mournful mood.
When the fire sprite rests
and the lashing wind stills,
I write to all those
long past who still fill
the hearts and minds
of our base world.
To those giants
on whose shoulders
we once proudly perched,
forgive us for our plummet
back down to the earth.
And though we still possess
the words your wisdom writ,
and treasure every line,
we cannot make sense of it.
Your syllables like spells
flurry down to our dull pit
and we listen
as you conjure what
we can only covet.
I’m grateful
you can not
witness
this far fall.
To all those
who came before,
who thought more,
who loved more,
who lived more,
I’m sorry
for us all.
pm poetry 