The Flint In The Cold

These rituals are finite and yet we play each
beat to a scathing rhythm. When we sit with
hands clasped before the fire, as though a wall
to shun the shimmered cold, we ache for some
tension; the rolling crunch of a fuelled wick, or
the grating teeth that deny all chatter. Find a
warmth in these palms that clench, held aloft
over white flecked with red. The picnic blanket
of our hearts is where we dine in these last
hours. Do you quake like my azul heart? Or is
this the final time it matters? Send the dark
away once more and let the stars blink crust
and crystal into that void above.


One thought on “The Flint In The Cold

  1. This reminds me of my “warming” myself, by sitting still, under a full moon, on the snowy slopes of Mt. Graham, Arizona, in the mid-Spring of 1979. As the dawn brightened, I noticed that a rattlesnake was lying still on a rock, 500 yards from the trail, no doubt having a hard time with the 36 degree Fahrenheit chill.

    Liked by 1 person

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