The Gift of Fire

I spend years on the edge of the world
sheltered from it
I watch the coronas trace the concentric circles of energy beneath me
I bide my time and gather my rest

I expel
my energy firing in bursts
jumps
just high enough to glimpse the fault lines

I imagine
if the tonnage shifted from Atlas' throngs
with arms like tree trunks
and legs of stretched iron

I realize
the burden
that would ring louder and show brighter
than I could ever bare to falter upon

but when I hear you in the other room
with a distracted fascination
at the center of your voice

I am muted and dulled
I wonder myself weak

about a persisting burden of righteousness
and for you to want the same

And as you turn the corner and fix your gaze to mine
I know nothing of the gravity from these myths
I shun it's pull
I bask in it's fiery corona

I know only that we are still so young
and Atlas can wait another winter
I know it

one hundred strangers

in a few hours it will be the international day of peace
i'm neck deep in quiet
the love of a waning september

the winds will soon grow cold and harsh,

but for now it feels hot and empty
like the ice; its needed
like the starkness of it will wake me

I don't seem to catch the leaves changing
as if they go from deep green to shining gold in a matter of hours
as if they fall overnight

as if the markets pack up
and the streets grow from grey to white

when porch swings go silent
and the two young lovers part ways for the winter

he goes to georgia,
where the wind simply chills
and the frosts are cause for conversation

she goes to maine,
where she is lost in the torrent
and the people are able to collectively marvel
each night,
in the calm silence of snowfall.

these legs are for flight.