It all burns as refuse,
the ashes blaze and fade
rising on smoke and tunneling
through the heated air…
In the grass, with piled wood, this fire burns,
with only the old oak reserved
a few feet distant.
While horizon ever surrounds and reminds.
When we say “distance is meaningless”
we pray for the future,
we bank our hopes,
we light sultry intentions as tinder.
While straining we hang there
from the branches of old oak
and the ropes tear at our wrists and ankles.
Our restless wants ever wrench.
Cut us free, and let us propell to..
Let us burn til we fly up like ash
or climb the branches free to star-hung cradles
just let us live, and let us die…