The Craftsman--in part

Monday, December 29, 2008

I remember my first time (ok, ok, only) time in a cave. Before that morning, I never could have imagined being unable to see my hand in front of my face. The cave was absolutely devoid of light. What would light be to someone who had never seen it? Pain? Revelation? Magic?

The fire builder approaches the clearing,
Though, really, he has never left.
The trees bow their boughs;
The ground holds its soil;
The sky stirs its wind;
and the builder gathers twigs.

He selects the ones that are ready,
Dry and primed to ignite.
He picks them and piles them,
Dark though it is,
And works toward a workable light.

Nothing is clear in the darkness,
Not even the stars pierce their sky.
Fuzzy dark corners muffle
Even the sounds and the smells.

The builder measures the breeze
and shelters the wood with his chest
Crouching, he gathers his tools
wisps of thin smoke, curls of the thicker,
A spark, a glow, a collection of embers.
Then, light.

hmmm... to bed.
Sleepy, not sleepy, Squash Pie (do NOT (!!) try that one...heh)


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