Mother teases as the seasons creep.

Mother teases as the seasons creep.
She knows what she wants, and she can’t help but give glimpses
of the fires that bellow below her crusted coverings.

Ragged tufts of green poke between the crusts and cracks.
A bountiful bust of blossoms stands between the stations.

Can the turning of seasons come so closely to the deeps of winter’s despair?

That is not ours to say.
But it is ours to hope.
 
We hope
and hope
and hope some more.

Life waits between the peaks and valleys. Fire strikes at the midpoint, snuffing desolation with its bawdy smolder. Its flames belch dance and song, bread and wine.

It is springtime, and it comes again.

Feb. 2, 2010 \ Read it on Scribd \ Photo attribution

Celebration of a certain group of friends, many of whom I am yet to meet.

Labor Day:

A group of strangers, focused and with intentions clear, sets fire to themselves.
Through pain and celebration, they are unified and reborn.
Reset by divine experience, they wobble across the peat and set to returning to the world.

And it is not the same.

As they tear down their village, they are not yet aware that the world around them has changed as well.
A snap. A crack. A puff. And a smolder.
They are strangers no more.

I am searching for another chance at that experience.
Can you bring the fire home? Are you even supposed to?
Or, is there a larger, less personal, purpose to it all.
The answer, my newest friend, may be yes.

Walk with me, and we’ll find out.

Jan. 5, 2010 \ Read it on Scribd \ Photo attribution