Fire

Lines of fire run through my center.
Mostly, I miss them while I dream,
but they are always there, burning
the tattered little tapestry of me, but then
setting it alight with beauty as well.

The lines connect out of my head,
through my feet and palms and groin
to roots and leaves of great trees,
to the meandering rivers and streams
that write the fortune of the earth.

Therefore I am the earth, held by spinning lines
around the sun and galaxy, ever outward
to the edges of God's skin.

Tonight I let the fire burn
and it speaks no longer in riddles.
It tells me of the settling of dew,
a little sorrow for this ephemera.
It tells me of the current and the little spark,
like the preposterous courage of dawn.