Softly, methodically with personal care
He gathers and places my wood.
Stick on stick over soft bed of kindling.
He cuts my branches to size. Places them so.
Wood on wood. Dry on dry. Some green.
Arranged to breathe. A fire for his hearth.
A circle of piled wood, a pyre.
Awaiting his touch of fire the kindling embraces his flame,
Passing upward, consumes all but my name.
All that is dead is snuffed in his suffering,
Wafting upwards in submission. All that is living becomes a living fire,
Alive in suffering that silence proclaims
Alive in a darkness his sorrow reclaims.
Burning. Smoking. Ashes. Coals.
Fire lit from his eyes.
Making sense of my past.
Breath of wind for today.
And hope that gives cause for tomorrow.
Alive in his life and his sacred sorrow.
Louis Templeman
