After a time, the fire starts to die
down to embers. Eventually, those, too
fade from bright red to dull grey like some eye
that is losing sight. We could renew
the flames with more wood, but without a sound
we all seem to agree that this holy
time must soon come to an end. A profound
hush descends, as each one of us slowly
gives in to contemplation. Could it be
that silence is more sacred than that which
preceded it? Is it possible we
see clearest when the world seems dark as pitch?
When the light from the flames finally ends,
around the circle a silence descends.
the prompt at dVerse today is to write an elegy. I don’t know if this quite fits the bill, although as I wrote this piece, the image of a group of family and friends standing around the bed of a dying loved one was constantly in my mind (more specifically, me, my wife, and my wife’s family standing around the bed of my father-in-law as he finally surrendered the fight). In this poem, the fire is very much a metaphor for life. The renewal of the fire with wood might be seen as leaving the machines hooked up… Yes, my poem is highly metaphorical, but does speak of a wonderful man whom I still miss very much.
I had actually written this prior to hearing the prompt, but it seemed to fit the bill.