A Wisp

by Rebecca Allison

There is a time,
When the fire’s burn,
Embers dancing about black dust.
Enter without call.
Too late rekindle,
The blaze that once burned?
Can such sparks,
Bare wisps,
To passing glances,
Retain their warmth?

Yet as the air blows,
Their past autumnal hues forgotten,
Blues begin to blaze,
Amongst the ashen remains.
Their heat,
Intense and relentless.
Of blue and white,
Tirelessly lapping for oxygen.
No fear or doubt to contain them.
A fire to blaze,
Ad infinitum.

February 15, 2016 Blueprint Magazine No Comments

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