Pickup Sticks

Gathering firewood, a delightful chore,
An ancient right of passage,
A wholesome occupation.
It connects us to those who’ve gone before,
Who’ve gathered, too, the sticks and twigs
Fire contained within the hearth is one thing,
But fire inside a ring
Of stones,
Beneath the stars,
Awakens the primitive
From deep within the ancient soul.
We are reminded
Of where we’ve been,
And from whence we came.
Not all believe that we have lived before,
And yet,
We have, in one form or another.
I live within the flames
And the smoke that rises …
I live in every leaf and blade of grass.
I hear myself in the Night Bird call,
I breathe as the Earth breathes beneath me.

It is then,
After we’ve gathered all the sticks
And stacked the logs in a pile,
That the warming flames reach out
To comfort,
To heat our bodies and our stew,
But, most of all
They set the Muse in motion.
What better feeling is there,
Of a job well done?

Vi
©February 2002