Licking flames obscured him
and defined him in the changing light
He stood on embers, in the smoke.
“I see ghosts” he said.
“There are no ghosts” the greedy fire hissed.
“Those are salamanders in the flame.”
The fire sang and danced all night,
spinning in a red and orange dress,
burning to see, to heat. to cook.
It charred the food and swept the prairie clean
so growth could start again.
He leaned over, mesmerized, and touched the coals.
He was a firewalker, dancing untouched on the ash with naked feet.
His fingers blistered and he yelped in pain.
Confused. His feet were whole, his hands now scarred.
Indifferent fire cleaned and scrubbed, cooked and burned.
He stands upon the coals and boasts
He still insists he sees the ghosts.
–Image: Ernest von Rosen, http://www.amgmedia.com
–Quinn McDonald is a writer and certified creativity coach. (c) 2007 All rights reserved.